


Barefootboys 2007

by tartanfics



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Marauders' Era, Non-Chronological, pre-Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/pseuds/tartanfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a serious of oneshots which bounce around in time, subject, and genre, but have an overarching plot--in 1982, Dumbledore hears Sirius's side of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things on Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daily prompts at [](http://barefootboys.livejournal.com/profile)[**barefootboys**](http://barefootboys.livejournal.com/) in August, 2007. You can find the original prompts [here](http://barefootboys.livejournal.com/tag/summer%202007).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sirius has always had a fascination with things on wheels." August 1st, 1976

August 1st, 1976  


It has been August for precisely five hours, but already the sky is that brilliant blue Remus associates with August, and only August. It is never that colour any other time of year. But the calendars in Remus’ bedroom (there are three of them) all still say July. He has a suspicion that they will continue to say July for at least another week, if the bicycle leaning against the tree at the end of the field is any indication. Order, to Remus Lupin, is changing the calendars promptly, and Sirius Black, though he brings many things when he comes to visit, does not bring order.

Sirius has always had a fascination with things on wheels. This very possibly has something to do with the fact that most things with wheels are Muggle things, and his parents have a certain objection to Muggle things. Sirius has a certain objection to his parents. But he likes wheels. Bicycles, motorbikes, cars, skateboards. (Remus has a very vivid memory of the time Sirius borrowed a skateboard from a Muggle boy, and promptly fell off it and crashed his head into a fence. Sirius has no memory of the incident at all.) Remus has no idea where Sirius found this particular bicycle, as he has never seen it before, but he knows it is Sirius’, though he does not see him. Though it is five in the morning, and Remus has not seen Sirius since June. 

“Moony!” Remus looks around, and is promptly tackled by a mass of flying limbs, black hair, and pointy elbows. The book he brought out here to read ( _Oliver Twist_ ) is tossed away across the grass, its pages helter-skelter.

“Hello, Sirius. You have grass in your hair.” 

“I know! Isn’t it brilliant?” Sirius finally lets him up, and bounds over to the bicycle. “I want to have grass in my hair absolutely all the time. All kinds of grass.”

“I was unaware there was more than one kind of grass.” 

“Oh, yes. I have been making a study. The grass in  Surrey is vastly different from the grass in  Devon . And in  London , there is hardly any grass at all.”

Remus observes this information quietly, looking at Sirius. He has a tendency to show up at Remus’ house without warning over the holidays and install himself (usually at odd hours, like five in the morning and exactly  midnight ), and every time he does he looks different from the last time Remus saw him. His hair has grown, which is not surprising, as Sirius’ hair grows remarkably fast. He’s wearing too-big jeans with a hole the shape of  Ireland in one knee, and a blue t-shirt that says “Paint” in bold letters. The expression on his face is very like that of the dog he became just last February. The idea of it, that Sirius, James, and Peter became animagi, all for him, still makes Remus catch his breath. He kind of hopes it will always make him catch his breath. 

“Hello, Sirius,” he says again. Sirius pauses in his movement toward the bike, and glances back at Remus.

“Come on, come see the bike.” He is impatient with Remus, but it is a fond kind of impatience, which they are both used to and which they would miss if it were gone. Remus ambles over and rings the bell on the handlebars. 

“Very nice.”

“Well? You want to try it?”

“Try what?”

“The bike!” Sirius grabs it by the handlebars and wheels it over to the road, looking back over his shoulder at Remus. 

Remus follows him, with the feeling that this is a Bad Idea, which is similar to the We-Are-Going-to-Be-in-So-Much-Trouble feeling, and the Oh, Bugger feeling. Sirius steps back and does a flourish at the bike, gesturing for Remus to get on. He does, gingerly. He wraps his fingers around the handlebars, squeezes the hand-brakes experimentally, adjusts himself on the seat. “You know I haven’t ridden a bike in—oh, God, since I was eight, or something. I’m going to crash into a tree and kill myself.”

“Shall I run behind you and catch you if you fall?” Sirius says, half joking.

Remus just looks at him, in the way that says, “It’s your bike, do you really want me to crash it into oblivion?”

“Okay then.” Remus puts his feet on the pedals, testing them. His brain has to relearn the art of riding a bike, though the rest of him still knows how—they say you never forget. He pushes off and then he’s coasting down the hill, Sirius racing behind him whooping and laughing at the way Remus wobbles slightly back and forth, almost losing control, and he realizes, for a moment, why Sirius likes things on wheels. 

Under the tree at the end of the field, _Oliver Twist_ lies in the grass, forgotten.

  


[ ](http://community.livejournal.com/barefootboys/5079.html)

  



	2. Things on Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sirius wants to think, or just to be, he goes to Remus’ house.

August 2nd, 1976

“So, why are you here?” They are lying in the backyard, recovering from their impromptu game of Cabbage, which was invented third year when they wanted to play Quidditch but had no quaffle, bludgers, or snitch. They used a cabbage. Remus is watching the birds and the clouds making patterns with each other in the sky, and Sirius is eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans with the kind of concentration that only Sirius possesses. Remus has often thought that Sirius could do anything he wanted—become Minister of Magic, or king of the world—if he put this concentration to things other than eating candy, planning pranks, and writing dirty versions of traditional songs. Sirius likes the unpredictability of this particular candy, though Remus has gotten far too many earwax, clay, and pickle flavoured beans to have any real desire to eat them.

It has been thirty-six hours since Sirius showed up on a bicycle at five in the morning, and Remus has only now asked this question. In the intervening years between now and that first train ride to Hogwarts, when Sirius tipped the entire stock of chocolate frogs from the food trolley onto Remus, Sirius has done this so many times that Remus has simply accepted the fact that sometimes, he needs to get out of his parents’ house and go Somewhere. When he wants to spend his days Doing things—like going to Diagon Alley and playing Quidditch with all the Wizarding kids in the neighbourhood; and Marauder things like planning pranks or researching for the Map—he goes to James’ house. When he wants to think, or just to be, he goes to Remus’ house. He goes to Peter when he wants good food and sympathy. Remus suspects that there are times when he doesn’t know what he wants, or doesn’t want any of those things, and he goes wherever the wind or the roads take him. Remus wonders now what it is that Sirius wants to think about. 

“Dress robes,” Sirius says, and tosses a green jelly bean at a sparrow hopping about nearby. 

“Dress robes? I know you’d rather go nude than wear dress robes, and probably have done, but is that really your whole reason?” Remus has spent a lot of time studying Sirius’ facial expressions—he finds them fascinating. At the moment he looks troubled, and he does it well—with a style which is very much his own. He looks a little like a tragic hero from a Victorian romance novel.

“They wanted me to put on dress robes and go to one of their parties for all my bloody stupid pureblood relatives.” Remus knows that by “they” he means his parents. It is a loaded word. “I wouldn’t do it.” He says this with a vehemence he does not really feel, not anymore. He is tired of being angry, tired of being stubborn and crazy and alive, when last week there were rumours that some Muggle relatives of one of the Ravenclaw seventh-years were killed by the group calling themselves Death Eaters. He is tired of being Sirius. He wonders, briefly, what it is like to be Remus.

“So you left?”

Sirius grins a little maniacally. “No. I went to their party. I went in the most Muggle-ish clothes I have.”

Remus winces a little. “I don’t suppose they took that well.”

“There was a rather splendid row, involving breaking china. And _then_ I left.”

Remus goes back to studying the sky, and thinks about families. He thinks about Sirius’ house, which he saw once when his parents and his brother were out. It was a terrifying place, and Remus can’t imagine growing up there, can’t imagine Sirius being Sirius in a parlour that looks like it should be a roped off museum exhibit. Can’t imagine Padfoot’s hair all over the place, the way it is in their dormitory at school. He thinks about his own parents, whose furniture has been patched so many times none of them remember what it looked like originally, who cheerfully welcomed Sirius to stay as long as he liked, and told Remus once that the Malfoys, the Lestranges and especially the Blacks, were to be avoided if at all possible. Well, maybe not all the Blacks. 

“Have you heard from James, lately?” Remus asks. He is possessed with a sudden overwhelming desire to distract Sirius from his thoughts. He wonders, sometimes, whether he is dull, and hopes he is not quite too dull to provide Sirius with something to think about other than his troubles at home.

Sirius barks laughter. He has always laughed like that, even before he became a dog animagus. “He ran into Evans in Diagon Alley and she tripped him into a crate of puffskein droppings.”

“Oh, poor, poor little James. Will he never learn?” 

“No, he’s much too stubborn for that.”

There is silence. With Sirius around, silence never lasts very long. He mutters something about peanut butter and chucks an Every Flavour Bean into the bushes.

“Moony?”

“What, Padfoot?” Remus rolls on his side and watches Sirius draw little patterns on the bag of Bertie Bott’s with his thumb. 

“I’m not going back.”

 “Going back where?”

“ _There._ I mean, I left my school trunk and all my stuff, I couldn’t have brought it on the bike, so I’ll have to go back at least once for that, but after that I’m not going back.”

“Oh,” Remus breathes. He should probably have seen this coming, he thinks. “Because of dress robes?”

“Because of _you_. I mean, not you, really, but they read something in the Prophet about somebody seeing a werewolf somewhere in Wales, and I know they weren’t talking about you but they _were_ talking about you, and then when we rowed over the dress robes they asked if I was going to go off and sulk at my blood-traitor friend’s house, and they meant James, and if they’d known about you they would have insulted you, too, and I said I didn’t care if my friends were blood-traitors, I didn’t care if they were half-blood or Muggleborn, because they were all the same and they were my friends. So I’m not going back.” He says this all very fast, and when he’s through he breathes out and scrambles up and walks over to stick his head under the hose.

“Where are you going to go, after you leave?” Remus asks when Sirius emerges, dripping and wiping water out of his eyes.

“I’ll go and stay with James, until I find a flat. I’ve got money, Uncle Alphard left me all his when he died.”

“You could stay here, if you like,” Remus offers, liking the way home is less ordinary and comfortable when Sirius is around. He gives things an unpredictability which, secretly, Remus rather likes. Even if he rarely gets any reading done when Sirius is around and there is no James or Peter to occupy him. 

“Honestly, Remus? Your house won’t _really_ fit another person, especially if that person is me. I take up a lot of space. No, I’ll stay at James’, he’s got an empty guest room, and his parents won’t mind. They like me. I can be a charming fellow when I want to be, Moony.” He looks sort of hopeful, though Remus isn’t sure why. He nods, mutely. Sirius turns the hose on him.

For the moment, parents, dress robes, and the future are forgotten.

  



	3. Rain, Wine, Oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The carpet smells of dog and summer, rain and motor oil.

August 3rd, 1978

It’s raining, and the clouds seem to be threatening thunder, which Remus thinks is appalling behaviour in the weather, as it is August and this is a month which is not supposed to even consider the possibility of clouds, let alone a full-blown storm. He is curled around a book on the windowsill in Sirius’ tiny flat, listening to the rain and the words of Mary Lennox and Dickon and Colin Craven running across the pages.

He starts and grins when Sirius apparates into the flat with a crack, sopping wet and carrying a distinctly soggy shopping bag. “You dimwit,” he says mildly, going back to reading. “You should have brought an umbrella.”

“I like getting wet.” Sirius shakes himself off as Padfoot would do, and sets the shopping bag on the coffee table. Remus sometimes wonders whether Sirius actually recognizes the boundaries between man and dog. 

“You’re dripping on the carpet; it’s not just you that’s wet.” Defiantly, Sirius sits down on the carpet and stretches out, creating a Sirius-shaped damp patch in the beige carpeting.

“Hey, but it’s my carpet to drip on, isn’t it? God, I love having my own flat. I can drip wherever I want.”

“As long as you don’t drip on me.”

“Oh, you just wait. What are your reading?”

“ _The_ _ Secret _ __ _ Garden _ .”

“Muggle kid’s book, isn’t it?” Sirius is unpacking his shopping bag, pulling out biscuits and oranges and a carton of eggs, and what looks like a bottle of red wine.

“Classic Muggle kid’s book. You’d like it, I think. The main character reminds me a little of you.” He smirks as he says this, knowing as he does in what particular respect Mary Lennox reminds him of Sirius.

“Well, classic or not, put it down and come help me drink this wine.”

“Where’d you get that?” Remus puts a bookmark in his place and crawls off the window sill, pulling the sleeves of his grey jumper down over his hands. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Remus lifts an eyebrow at this and thinks maybe he doesn’t really want to know after all. Sometimes Sirius’ actions are better left unquestioned. “Shouldn’t we have wine glasses?”

Sirius lazily flicks his wand at the cork, and it goes flying and hits Remus on the nose. He looks pointedly at Remus and drinks straight from the bottle.

“Well then.”

-

They are lying on their stomachs, side by side. They have drunk more wine than the bottle could possibly contain, which Remus suspects has something to do with the thing he wouldn’t like to know. Sirius is always very contemplative when drunk, while Remus has retained considerably more of his wits than his companion. They make an odd pair. 

Sirius rolls over onto his back suddenly, and stares fixedly at the ceiling. “Would you rather I hadn’t come home and tried to get you drunk so you could have gone on reading your Muggle kid’s book? Sorry, _classic_ Muggle kid’s book.”

“I sense there was some motive in your attempt at my inebriation.” Remus’ voice is muffled in the carpet, which is still faintly damp. It smells of dog and summer, rain and motor oil. He looks up, and Sirius has scooted closer so that his face is next to Remus’, large and pinkish at such close range.

“Wanted to kiss you. Thought it best to get you drunk first.” And he does, though Remus isn’t really very drunk, and would have snogged him at any level of sobriety. Sirius is sloppy and warm and smells of dog just like the carpet, and tastes, oddly, not of red wine but of the oranges in his shopping bag, which they have not eaten. Remus pulls back and grins.

“I would have minded, had it been anyone but you trying to get me drunk.”


	4. Hope and Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus is used to desperation.

August 4th, 1982

The morning of the full moon, Remus Lupin receives a letter from Albus Dumbledore. The owl that delivers it is large and tawny; it swoops through the window and drops the letter on Remus’ copy of Hamlet, which he is reading at the kitchen table. Remus does not very often receive mail any more, and it startles him. He has become unaccustomed to the constant coming and going of owls, which he took so calmly during his school days, and afterwards, when letters to and from his friends travelled back and forth daily. The owl lands on his shoulder and pulls his hair gently in her beak, and then leaves again, back out the kitchen window and into the pale blue sky.

Slowly, Remus opens the letter, recognizing with surprise the clear, slanting writing so particular to the Headmaster.

_ Dear Remus, _

    _This letter does not, perhaps, reach you on the best of days, but I do hope you are well in spite of it. The timing is not to be helped._

_Yesterday I went on business to Azkaban. I was just leaving, finished with my business, when I passed the cell of Sirius Black. He looked—not well, certainly, but alive. Coherent. Human, as many other prisoners do not. I spoke to him, and he answered quite intelligently, though without any of the humour he once possessed. He told me a story. A story I believe to have the appearance of truth. He told me he is innocent._

_The full tale I would like to relate to you in person. If you would like to visit me at Hogwarts this Friday, it would be much appreciated._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

-  


Remus is used to desperation. By now he has absorbed it into his skin, to the point where without it he would feel truly naked. But he is only now realizing that the thing he is desperate for is _hope_. 

That evening, Remus goes down to the basement cellar of his parents’ house. He bolts and bars the door, and locks it by magic. He puts his wand carefully into the solid wooden chest at one corner of the room, so that he does not step on it or chew it and break it when he is the wolf. He strips off his clothes and folds them carefully, setting them atop the chest. He wraps himself in a blanket, and waits.

The night is not any easier than it has been in the year since he last had the company of his now-broken pack, but it has lost some of the desperation that usually comes with the violence. The wolf, like the man, allows itself to hope.


	5. Aristotle, 25 Notes, and Three Bad Drawings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither one of them is entirely sure  what the lecture is about. So they pass notes.

August 5th, 1976

Somehow, when James wasn’t looking or was half asleep and too incoherent to do anything about it, his mum talked him and Sirius into going to a lecture at the Muggle library in their neighbourhood. Something about, “So your brains don’t go all squashy while you are busy lazing about and eating all the food in the house.” However it happened, they are now sitting at a table in the library, which is hot and stuffy, doodling on a stack of lined paper with stubby little yellow pencils. Sirius stares into space, watching the leaves of a tree fluttering outside the window. He wishes he were outside with that breeze. Neither one of them is entirely sure what the lecture is about. Something to do with Aristotle—they’ve heard his name several times, in the brief moments when they are actually listening. 

Sirius showed up on James’ front porch yesterday, dragging his school trunk, looking windblown and tired. “I moved out,” he said. “Can I stay here?” And of course, James and his parents have been only too happy to rename the guest room Sirius’s room. James has not yet asked why exactly Sirius had left home, though he has seen it coming for a good while—years, maybe.

He grabs a piece of paper and scribbles a note to Sirius.

  


  


  
  


Sirius grins roguishly and eyes the woman, who is of a stout middle-age, and who has been facing front the entire time.

  


  


  


James snorts, and fashions a silly little dunce cap out of a piece of paper. The lecturer glares at him. It’s not as though he has anything against Aristotle, really, it’s just that no one should be made to hear about him on such a lovely day as this, when they could be outside romping and being festive, and shocking the neighbours.

  


  


James writes his response, and wonders whether Aristotle ever imagined two teenage wizards would be one day listening to (by which we mean ignoring) a lecture about him and plotting to prank the Slytherins. Probably not.

  


  
  


Every year since they were twelve, the four Marauders have pulled a Great Back to School Prank of Doom and Destruction, outdoing themselves each time. Last year’s prank, which involved all the fifth-year Slytherins’ trousers and many many mashed potatoes, resulted in three weeks of detention. Of course, this year they have the benefit of being animagi, an asset which they have yet to really use for the furthering of Chaos and Disorder. 

  


  


Sirius grins and nods, and doodles their faces in the margins. Moments later, he writes another note.

  
  


James gapes at him, and shakes his head. Sirius thinks vaguely that he looks rather like a fish.

  


  


  
  


Sirius looks faintly miffed. James can’t tell if it’s because he got drunk without him, or because he nearly snogged Frank Longbottom. 

  


  


  
  


The concept of Sirius “just wondering” is unusual. Sirius either thinks too much, or not at all. Really, this is true of Sirius in all respects. He embodies extremes, and never does anything halfway.

  


  


  


  


  
  


  


 

  



	6. Scars

August 6th, 1982

That evening, Remus finds himself taking the London Underground. It is a cool, clear evening, the air crisp in a way more common to October than August. He watches the people sitting near him—women with shopping bags, children, dogs; men in business suits, carrying briefcases, large wrapped canvases, guitar cases; young couples curled together, older couples standing near enough each other to feel what the younger couples do, only more quietly. He wonders if any of them are watching him in turn. He has always been very nondescript.

There have been multiple occasions on which Remus has been in Dumbledore’s office. It never changes much, which makes him feel like everything else should have stayed the same also, stuck in the happier times that Remus remembers, when he was first here. The day he came to Hogwarts. He remembers it well, being eleven—the things that happened, anyway. He cannot quite remember any longer what it feels like to be young, though at 22 he is hardly old. That first time he spoke to Dumbledore—anxious, sleepy, hopeful—will stick in his mind forever. A new Gryffindor, keeping secrets from his fellows. He asked Dumbledore, that day, what he should say to his dorm mates, if they asked about his scars. And Dumbledore told him how he himself had a scar that was an exact map of the London Underground, just by his left knee. How scars can come in handy. He’s not sure that his ever have. 

Remus needs to think, to process what Dumbledore has told him, and he has always thought best in transit, between places. Most wizarding transport is not conducive to this. Certainly not Apparition or the Floo, and Remus no longer has a broom. So he takes the Tube.

The idea that Sirius could be innocent is an incredible one. At the same time, it makes so much sense. Remus does not think he would ever have believed Sirius capable of such treachery, were it not for incontrovertible truth that Sirius had been the Secret Keeper. That it could only have been him. To discover that there is a very real possibility that it was _not_ him, that it was _Peter_ , makes Remus feel blinded. Like the truth has been hiding behind corners all this time, just out of reach. A few more steps, a few more facts, and the truth is caught.

Remus had known that Sirius distrusted him, near the end. He had seen why—he was the obvious choice, so good at keeping secrets from his friends and from himself. It had taken them two years of knowing him to discover the first of his secrets. It had taken him much longer than that to realize another truth, why Sirius’ distrust hurt him more than any of the others’. He had hated knowing that Sirius kissed him looking for answers, wondering whether Remus was the traitor. But that was what Voldemort’s most powerful weapon had always been.

“May I sit here?” She is a Muggle woman, in a grey jacket and long blue skirt, blonde hair loose over her shoulders. She looks pleasant. Ever so slightly plump, smiling, carrying a book. Remus likes her instantly. 

“Of course.” He gestures to the seat next to him, and she sits down. 

“Going home?” she asks.

“Something like that.” Remus is not actually sure where he is going—he got on the first train that came by. But he doesn’t think she really needs to know that.

“Me too. Do you work around here?” Normally, Remus would mind her questioning, but he doesn’t. And suddenly, he finds himself telling her the whole sideways, messy, desperately awful story. Leaving out the parts that mention things like Voldemort and magic, because she is a Muggle, and those aren’t the parts that really matter. The parts that matter are Lily and James, and Harry, and Sirius, and trust and friendship and betrayal, and how the betrayal is easier to bear knowing now as he does that he no longer has to hate someone he should love. 

And he does know. Telling the story aloud makes it sound more believable. She listens and watches Remus’ face, and believes him. She trusts Sirius, a man she has never met, and tells Remus so. 

They get off the train at the same station, though Remus has no idea which station this is. When they emerge into the air and fading light, he realizes that he is in the neighbourhood of Sirius’ old flat, the tiny one in which they shared their first kiss the second time around, and in which Remus Lupin was _not_ betrayed by Sirius Black.


	7. If Nobody Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If nobody speaks, they will be able to imagine that nothing has changed.

August 7th, 1977

They are awake late into the night, revelling in the heat of the last month before their last year in school, not wanting it to end. One by one, they drop into sleep—Peter in the middle of the living room floor where they will trip over him, James protesting even as his eyes close, “I’m awake, I’m awake.” Remus goes to sleep huddled in a corner, closing his eyes so as not to have to talk to Sirius alone. They are still awkward, in the aftermath of The Prank. Remus always thinks his habit of capitalising the significant events in his life is stupid, but still he cannot help it. The Bite, Coming to Hogwarts, The Animagi Transformation, The Kiss. 

Sirius is not sure, later, whether he ever went to sleep at all.

The morning dawns early, cold and grey, and Remus wakes to find that he seems to have moved in his sleep. He is now on the sofa, with the afghan usually thrown over the back of it covering him to the waist. James is curled in a little ball in the armchair by the window, with Sirius’ leather jacket across his knees. Peter, lying flat on his back on the other side of the coffee table, is snoring softly, his hands rising up and down on his chest. Sirius is crushed into the space between the sofa and the coffee table. He is awake, and watching Remus. 

“Hi,” Remus rasps, his voice hushed. “How did I get on the couch?”

“You looked really uncomfortable over there.” Sirius jerks his head at the corner Remus fell asleep in. “I, uh, moved you.”

“And didn’t take the comfortable spot all for yourself? Why, Padfoot, think of your reputation.” Remus doesn’t mention the afghan, though he can’t help noticing. 

Sirius looks sheepish. “Well—”

“You needn’t answer that.” They are whispering, unwilling to break the silence. Mouths barely move, and it is almost as if they are not speaking at all, as if their voices contribute to the silence rather than take away from it. Remus reaches out a hand and brushes Sirius’ hair off his forehead. Sirius’ breath catches, and then evens out, heavy as in sleep. He wonders if he is asleep, and dreaming. “Sirius…” This is the only hour of the day that Remus can picture Sirius silent, and he wishes it was more common. Even before the business with Snape, when Remus used to wake early and watch Sirius sleep, it was not the same. Sirius awake and silent is more strange than Sirius calm and asleep. He makes small doggy noises in his sleep. 

If nobody speaks, they will be able to imagine that nothing has changed. That they have been here all along, Remus’ palm against Sirius’ temple, sprawled across James’ living room, like they were last year. If nobody speaks of anything but the mundane things, small murmurings, like “The sun’s coming up,” and “I do not function on four hours of sleep,” and “Why can’t Prongs’ parents get carpeting, damn it,” they will be able to forget their awkwardness, and the thing that’s happening that they do not want to call a war, and the letter Sirius got not long ago from his parents’ solicitors, telling him he’d been disinherited.

If nobody speaks of remarkable things, if they say nothing but the things that do not need to be said, all will be well. It is easy, in this early morning half light, for Sirius to say that he is sorry, _Oh God, so sorry_ , because it is something they both know is true. And Remus says, “You don’t need to say that.” 

When this pause in time is over, when they world starts turning and they all wake up, things will become complicated again. They will have to think about the war and the future, and about what will happen if they don’t say the things that do need to be said before it becomes impossible.

Remus looks out the window, and smiles. He swings his legs off the couch, pulling Sirius up with him, laughing softly. It’s morning, but the birds aren’t yet singing. It’s still silent. “Come on, Sirius,” Remus says. “Let’s watch the sun come up.”


	8. Wallpaper Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s supposed to be a routine mission. Very little risk involved. This does not make Remus worry any less.

  


August 8th, 1978  


Remus is sitting in the booth at the back of the Chinese restaurant on the corner, drinking his water and picking idly at the peeling vinyl seat. He glances with barely concealed anxiety at the door, and ignores the waiter, who is beginning to look impatient that Remus hasn’t yet ordered any food. Outside, the sky fading into a faintly pinkish blue, in limbo between the sun and the moon and stars. Remus is waiting, and it’s making him feel like he’s in the same kind of limbo, between uncertainty and knowing. 

It’s the war that brings this uncertainty. It always is. They are eighteen, they should not have to wait and worry. At least James and Sirius, even Peter, have the luxury of action—missions for the Order, Auror work. Remus researches, studies, shelves books. Has too much time to think. Remus has only been on one Order mission, and nothing happened. The meeting he was supposed to be spying on did not take place.

James and Sirius have been somewhere— Scotland , Remus thinks—tracking the movements of several Death Eaters. It’s supposed to be a routine mission. Very little risk involved. This does not make Remus worry any less. 

The door of the restaurant opens, and Remus looks up, hopeful. He is disappointed. The waiter comes to his table. “Sir, are you ready to order?”

“No, I’ll wait. I’m meeting friends, they aren’t the most punctual.” The waiter nods grudgingly, and goes to another table. 

Remus is reading the menu for the fourth time, when he hears the door open again. He looks up, stands up, and the menu slides to the floor. He sees Sirius at the head of the group, tall, dark haired, laughing. James is just behind him, hair almost wilder than usual, glasses catching the light, his arm around Lily, who is looking at him like she suspects he will disappear as part of some stupid prank with Sirius. Peter hangs behind (though not so far behind as he used to), smiling happily at his friends, looking tired.

Sirius looks around the restaurant and spots Remus, and he grins like mad, and then he’s halfway across the room, and Remus grins back. Vaguely, Remus is aware of James and Lily and Peter sitting down, laughing, reaching for menus. But Sirius has him by the waist and the back of his head, and they are bumping noses and chins, and Sirius kisses him on the mouth, right there in the middle of the Chinese restaurant on the corner. If Remus was sane enough to care, he would notice that the waiter is glaring at him even more than he was before, which doesn’t seem justified as now they can order their food, now that his friends are here. 

“Welcome back, Sirius.”

“I was only gone for two days.”

“I know. It’s a lot quieter without you. No one interrupting my reading and mocking the characters, or making up bawdy songs about them.” 

“Hey!” Remus chuckles and pulls Sirius down into the seat, kissing him again, smelling soap and sweets and good clean dirt on his skin. 

“Oi! We’re hungry over here.” James is grinning and looking a little sheepish. 

“You’re one to talk,” Sirius says, raising an eyebrow at Lily.

“Yes, well, we were at home,” James splutters, kicking Sirius under the table. 

“No causing trouble, or Remus, Peter, and I will dispense of you, and talk sensibly and maturely over here.” Lily looks rather menacingly pretty, sitting demurely behind her menu and watching the scene. Remus can see, in this, why James has been in love with her for the last seven years. And he can see, at the same time, how it was possible for her to so easily become a part of their little Boys Club, which has now become a Boys and Lily Club. None of them resents the change.

“Sorry we’re late,” Peter says. “Sirius wanted to take the bus, and then we got on the wrong bus so we had to get off it and just Apparate.”

“You great dolt,” Remus says fondly, running his thumb over Sirius’ eyebrow, where there is a cut. “Where’d you get this? Get in the way of some big nasty Death Eater?” 

Sirius looks embarrassed, ducking his head. “Er, no. Rather alarmingly pointy toothbrush, actually. Out of control. Ought to be put down.” 

“Perhaps you insulted its honour,” Remus suggests helpfully. “Hygiene implements can be remarkably touchy about that sort of thing. Rather like Hippogriffs, you know.” 

“In lieu of discussing the care and control of toothbrushes,” Lily says, “we really ought to order our food, before that waiter comes and uses _us_ for food.”

“But you’re fine, both of you?” Remus asks. “Everything went well?” 

“It did,” Sirius answers. “More than well.” Remus studies his face, and everything seems brighter, somehow. The vinyl seats, even peeling as they are, hide the grime of cheap Chinese food, and the wallpaper dragons grin and frolic. Sirius’ eyes hold no shadows, the corners of his mouth and the cleft of his chin hold smiles. “Missed you,” he murmurs, leaning into Remus’ shoulder, though it’s been less than a week since he’s had the right to miss Remus as anything more than good friends. But Remus knows that really, Sirius has been missing him for over a year, and only now, when they are on the brink of chaos, has he been able to say so. 

They break open fortune cookies. They’ll need the good luck.


	9. Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Potter thinks maybe he should have reconsidered taking four boys up in a hot air balloon.

August 9th, 1976

Peter does not like heights. Peter _really_ does not like heights. Which explains why he is sitting at the bottom of the basket of a hot air balloon, getting in the way and being tripped over, and very resolutely _not_ looking over the edge. 

He has no problem with spiders or snakes. He is not claustrophobic (being a rat animagus, he is used to small spaces). He is not any good at public speaking, but he doesn’t fear it. He deals with needles, and has never had any fear of the dark. But he does not like heights. Miserably, Peter wishes he had stayed at home. 

-

 

James’ dad has some strange interests. He goes bird watching every other weekend. He collects Muggle stamps. When James and Sirius were twelve they spilled pumpkin juice all over his entire collection of Victorian Wizarding comic books. And he likes hot air balloons. 

He thinks maybe he should have reconsidered taking  four sixteen year old boys up in one.

-

James has been up in balloons before. The first time was his seventh birthday (when he very nearly managed to fall out of the basket), and most recently at the Easter holiday. He likes it, though it’s not as good as flying. But it’s a similar feeling—like being a bird. Like his feet have floated up into his stomach. 

He’s done this before, so he doesn’t have to spend all his time marvelling at the way the people and houses down below look like his cousins’ dolls. He watches Sirius instead, watches him looking at Remus. And he sees it. It’s not obvious, which surprises James a little, because he is used to Sirius being obvious. But you can see it if you’re really looking, he thinks, and wonders why Moony has never noticed. But then, he can sometimes be extraordinarily oblivious about that kind of thing. 

James can hardly fault Sirius for loving Remus. He has been after Lily for years.

-

 

Sirius is like a puppy, bouncing and peering every which way. Mr. Potter explains to them how the balloon works, and he listens attentively, which is a good deal more than can be said for most of his classes (though this does not stop him from getting near-perfect grades). He is grinning like a mad thing, and his hair is in his eyes, and he’s shouting over the wind, “Look at the cars, Moony, all the tiny cars!” and “James, this is brilliant, why didn’t you ever say how brilliant this is?” and “Pete, come up here and look at the view!” Peter whimpers, and Remus looks down at the cars, smiling indulgently. James just laughs and pushes Sirius playfully towards the edge. 

It’s  noon , and the sky is almost clear as glass, a blue that is disconcertingly similar to Dumbledore’s eyes. They pull sandwiches out of the basket Mrs. Potter packed for them, and Remus suspects that food is the only thing likely to tempt Sirius away from his fascination with the hot air balloon. He stands at the railing, chewing in consideration on his cheese and pickle. Remus stands next to him and grins, gesturing in speech with his own turkey and cheddar sandwich. 

“You’re going to forget about that sandwich and drop it over the edge, and it’ll hit some poor sod on the head and then a dog will come and eat it. Just you wait and see.”

Sirius stares at him. “But Moony, a dog’s already eating it.”

“You’re hopeless.”

Sirius slings an arm across Remus’ shoulder, and tosses the last corner of the sandwich downwards, watching it plummet, spiralling and coming to pieces. “Maybe a bird will catch it, Moony. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“Yes, Padfoot, that would be cool.”

He takes another bite of his own sandwich, and contemplates it. He’s too used to being—not poor, exactly, but used to knowing that his parents don’t have all the money in the world, that you ought to eat food when you’ve got it. And he worries too much, as they get closer to their graduation, that it will be difficult for him to find a job anywhere that will accept him. Sirius has spent his life being indulged, even after he went to Hogwarts and stopped wanting to be anything like his parents. He has never gone hungry. At least, never apart from the time in fourth year when the four of them got stuck in a dungeon at the bottom of the school for two days with nothing but cheese. 

“So, how have you been, Moony?”

“How have I been?” This seems an odd question coming from Sirius.

“Miserable without me, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, I don’t know how I’ve been getting on, it’s been positively horrendous. Absolutely horrible. Quite awful. I don’t know if I shall survive.” 

Sirius shoves him, nearly dislodging his grip on his sandwich. “You big arse. I actually wanted to know, you know.”

“I am not a big arse. I have been mocked several times to the contrary.”

“And will be so again, I’m sure. Really, it’s not every day you meet someone with such an extraordinarily tiny—”

“Thank you, Sirius,” Remus says loudly, and looks around to see why James has not heard Sirius’ teasing and joined in. He is sitting on the floor, trying to shove a sandwich at Peter, who is, strangely, refusing. James’ dad is fiddling with the controls, staring up into the blue and yellow hollow of the balloon. 

Sirius is frowning in a way Remus recognises as concentration. Absentmindedly he reaches over and plucks Remus’ sandwich out of his hand, biting into it almost without noticing what he is doing. “Hey!”

“What? Oh. Sorry.” He eats the rest of the sandwich. Remus throws his arms up in defeat. 

Remus leans over, and says confidentially, “So, what’s the verdict? Cheese and pickle or turkey and cheddar?” 

Sirius turns and stares at him. His cheeks are pink with the wind and his grey eyes border on silver, and there’s mayonnaise on his nose. 

Sirius has mayonnaise on his nose. So Remus kisses him. 

Sirius’ mouth is half open in surprise, and Remus’ aim was a little off, so he’s kissing the crook of his lips, and his nose is digging into Sirius’ cheek. It is sort of bizarre.

And then, suddenly, Remus realizes what he is doing and stumbles backwards, eyes wide. “Oh. _Oh_ , er, sorry. Damn. Sorry. Oh hell.” He backs up further, and goes to rummage in the lunch basket for another sandwich.

Turkey and cheddar, Sirius thinks. Definitely turkey and cheddar.


	10. Being Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius is eleven years old.

August 10th, 1971 through  September 2nd, 1971

Sirius is eleven years old and he has just gotten his very first letter from Hogwarts. _Dear Mr. Black_ …. The handwriting is dark and confident and practised, like the writer has written this letter a hundred times over. Which, really, she probably has. It seems late in the summer to be receiving this letter, especially since he has been eleven for several months. He (and his mother) have been checking the post every day, horrified at the thought that they might have forgotten to send a letter to _Sirius Black_ , of all people. Sirius Black, who exhibited his first sign of magic at the age of three, when he sent the entire wall of house elf heads crashing to the floor in a fit of temper.

He spends the day sitting at the top of the kitchen staircase, reading his letter over and over again. Hogwarts is going to be _brilliant_. He has no doubts about this fact, or about how well he will do there. He is a bright child. He learns quickly, and knows it. He is heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He will be sorted into Slytherin, like his mother and father, like his cousins, like all the relatives that have not been blasted off the family tree. He will make his parents proud. 

He can’t help hoping he will make friends. This, though he does not know it, is not really a characteristic of most boys hoping to be in Slytherin. Most of them only want accomplices. But he has always been a little lonely, in this vast, grand, and cold house at 

Grimmauld Place

. 

“Sirius!” his mother calls from the parlour. “Put your cloak on, we are going to buy your school supplies.” Hastily, he stuffs his letter into his pocket, and obeys her command.

-

 

Sirius is still eleven years old, but being eleven years old and getting on the train to Hogwarts is different than being eleven years old and receiving his Hogwarts letter. He imagines he has grown up a lot in three weeks. He holds himself regally, looking around Platform 9¾ with an interest barely concealed behind a carefully learned air of superiority. He already has his robes on, and they are rather stuffy and a little too long. The train station is crowded and hot, and August still lingers in the air. His mother kisses him on the forehead and pushes him toward the train, telling him to send an owl when he gets into Slytherin. He does not know, then, that this is the last time his mother will show any trace of affection for him. And he is too excited to notice the brief brush of her lips.

-

 

“I’m supposed to be a Slytherin,” Sirius says stubbornly, sitting on his bed. The curtains around it are scarlet and gold, and he wishes he knew enough magic to make them a different colour. “The stupid Sorting Hat got it wrong. Blacks aren’t Gryffindors. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Sorry, mate. You are what you are.” James Potter shrugs, pulling on Gryffindor coloured pyjamas by the bed across from Sirius’. 

“I’m not sure that’s really a helpful thing to say,” mumbles a skinny brown-haired boy whose name Sirius would remember to be Lupin, if he cared to remember.

“I reckon the Sorting hat knows where we should be better than we know ourselves,” James Potter continues. “’Course, I knew I’d be a Gryffindor. Sort of inevitable, really.”

“I was inevitably going to be a Slytherin,” Sirius says through gritted teeth. He glares at Peter Pettigrew, who looks worried and a little lost, like he is not sure quite how he got where he is. “And that didn’t happen.”

“Yeah, well. Look, go to bed. It’ll look better in the morning.”

-

 

But it doesn’t look better. It looks just as bad, at least until the morning post comes, and Sirius sees his parents’ large grey owl swooping towards him, red envelope clutched in its beak. Then it looks worse. 

As Walburga Black’s voice rings through the Great Hall, Sirius tries to wrench off his red and gold tie, and finds himself nearly strangled by it, pulling the wrong end. Fine. He’ll keep the damn tie.

-

 

The morning break finds Sirius climbing a tree by the lake, where he sits twisting his tie back and forth in his fingers. Presently he hears rustling near the base of the tree, and Remus Lupin’s head appears between the branches, watching him warily. “What?” Sirius snaps, twisting his tie viciously. Remus winces as he hears stitches splitting. 

“I, er, brought you some chocolate biscuits. Since, you know, you didn’t eat anything at breakfast.”

Sirius stares at him. He isn’t sure he’s hungry, but he takes the biscuits anyway. Lupin continues, “Look, I know you don’t want to be in Gryffindor, but you should get used to it, since that’s where you are. And probably not glare at all of us and look wistfully at the Slytherins, ‘cause that’s just not Gryffindor behaviour. And like it or not, you’re a Gryffindor.”

Remus thinks how Sirius has an impressive glower. If he had not seen the teddy bear Sirius was clutching in his sleep this morning, Remus might have found it frightening. “Do you always sit in trees to sulk?”

This startles Sirius into speech. “I am not sulking!” Remus smiles understandingly. “I’m going to hate you now. Do you mind?” Sirius says with false politeness.

“No, I don’t mind, though it seems a little ungrateful considering I just brought you chocolate biscuits.”  


Sirius looks at the biscuits, having forgotten they were there. He takes a bite out of one, and is surprised by how good it is, and how hungry he is. “Where’d you get these?”

“Kitchens,” Remus says a little smugly.

“You know where the kitchens are?” Sirius asks with interest.

“My dad told me. I can show you, if you like.” Remus slips down through the branches of the tree, taking it for granted that Sirius will follow. _Lupin_ , Sirius thinks. _His name is Remus Lupin_.

-

 

Sirius is eleven years old, and he has a friend named Remus Lupin.


	11. In the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and Remus both had their reasons for being good at Astronomy.

August 11th, 1982

The four of them had always been good at Astronomy. James was good at everything, save Herbology, and he treated the subject like a puzzle or a map, finding stars and naming them. It had been one of Peter’s better subjects, though he was never fond of it. Neither he nor James continued taking Astronomy past their O.W.L.s. Neither James nor Peter had any real connection to the sky.

Sirius and Remus both had their reasons for being good at Astronomy. Sirius’ parents had been teaching him Astronomy since he was old enough to know where his name came from. By the time he came to Hogwarts he had been ahead of his class by roughly three years. Remus learned Astronomy out of necessity at first, so that he would always know when the moon was coming to claim him. But then he found himself fascinated with the orb that held so much power—over the months, over tides, over _him_. This slightly morbid fascination spread to the other celestial bodies, until he could name everything he would ever see in the sky. 

It is a clear night, and the stars reflect and refract upon the water. Remus sets to rowing, in a little boat borrowed from a Muggle fisherman in the town of  Berwick-upon-Tweed . When he grows tired he charms the boat to keep moving, with the speed of a motorboat but none of its noise. Sitting silently in the stern, it is easy for Remus to pick out his two points of reference in the sky—the Moon, and Sirius. 

-

_ Azkaban Prison, situated in the North Sea, can be reached in only two ways. Though the Porter’s Office has a very ancient fireplace which is considered of historical importance, it is not connected to the Floo Network, for extra security.  _

_ \--Albert Cropping,  _ Institutions of Wizarding  Britain _ , page 453 _

-

Remus has been planning for days. He has not told Dumbledore what he is planning, because he is not entirely sure that Dumbledore would approve his methods. Dumbledore knows that his own belief in Sirius’ innocence is not _proof_ in Sirius’ innocence, and Remus suspects that he would rather wait for proof before trying anything. But Remus is fuelled by the need for revenge against Peter, for justice. He spent too long learning to trust his friends to be betrayed by one of them. Especially Peter. If he had ever really believed, with all his heart, that Sirius were the traitor, he would have felt this way a year ago. And he is not sure he can do it alone. Remus has always needed Sirius, though he knows Sirius would say, _took you long enough to admit it, Moony_.

The soft little mouse in his coat pocket burrows deeper, and he pats it absently. 

-

_ The prison may be reached by boat, but no boats are kept on the island. It may be also be reached by Apparition, but the prisoners have no wands and it is not possible to Apparate without one. All cells have wards against Apparition placed upon them.  _

_ \--Albert Cropping,  _ Institutions of Wizarding  Britain _ , page 453 _

-

Azkaban first makes its presence known as a great solid mass of darkness, blacker than the rest of the night and obscuring the stars that should be visible in the sky behind it. The only light is a single point of gold near the base of the prison, incongruously resembling a star. The boat bumps softly against the rock of the island, and Remus ties the painter around a large stone. Still sitting in the boat, he pulls the mouse out of his pocket and points his wand at it. It twitches and squeaks, and then it is changing. Against the night, the dark fur of the dog looks like a shadow. Remus wishes he had light, so he could check his Transfiguration, make sure nothing has gone wrong, that the dog looks as it should. But he has too often fallen asleep with Padfoot curled around his knees not to know every fur and angle of the creature.

He gets out of the boat, and the dog follows. The light at the base of the prison looms larger, no longer like a star. He comes to a door and knocks, the lantern hanging next to the door swings slightly. Someone answers—backlit, he cannot see the Porter’s face. 

“I am here to see Sirius Black. I am sent by Albus Dumbledore.”

-

_ The Porter of Azkaban has an unsavoury job. Though dementors guard the prison, they do not fully understand that officials must sometimes visit it, nor do they understand who must be allowed entrance and who must not. Dementors guard the prisoners, the Porter guards the door. The walls of his rooms are imbued with many layers of many people’s Patronuses, because the spell has been cast there so many times. Dementors do not enter, but they stand guard outside the door to the rest of the prison, and take visitors to the visited. The Porter must never leave the door. _

_ \--Albert Cropping,  _ Institutions of Wizarding  Britain _ , page 454 _

-

“Come in.”

Remus enters, the dog following obediently at his heels. He looks at it in the light, and has to catch his breath. It looks, in every way, like Padfoot. The Porter, an elderly fellow with a round face and green eyes, watches Remus. “Good evening,” Remus says, for lack of anything else. He does not give his name.

“You wish to see Sirius Black? Very well.” This is the one part of the plan on which Remus was forced to seek Dumbledore’s help. They would not let just anyone in to Azkaban, especially not to see such a high security prisoner as Sirius. But Remus feels sure that giving Dumbledore’s name will give him entrance. And he is unwilling to give Dumbledore’s name without Dumbledore’s consent. Remus suspects that the Headmaster always expected him to want to see Sirius sooner or later. He has never been sure how much Dumbledore knows about their friendship. Or whatever it is, or was. Or will be. 

Almost before he knows it, Remus is following a dementor down a cold stone hall. He shivers, and wishes he could conjure a Patronus. But it doesn’t seem prudent, so he grits his teeth and tries to fight off the effects of the dementor. He weaves his fingers into the dog’s fur, and tries not to look through the bars of the cells they are passing. 

And then Remus sees him…. He is lying on his back, hands clasped over his chest, staring at the ceiling. He looks like an effigy, cold and pale in death. But he is not dead. Remus watches his chest rise and fall. He steps to the bars, and ignores the dementor, which waits, back turned, guarding. “Sirius….”

Sirius is not as Remus remembers him. Remus remembers sleek black hair, soft lips, sparkling eyes, a lingering smile. He has never seen this version of Sirius, hair matted, eyes dull, skin greyish, looking as if it will take a week of showers to get the dirt off him. “Sirius….” 

Sirius doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “Sirius, it’s me. It’s Remus.” He clears his throat. “It’s Moony.” 

“You’re not here, you’re a ghost. Moony doesn’t come here.”

Remus thinks Sirius’ mood must have swung since Dumbledore saw him. Dumbledore described him as being awake, alive, desperate. But today, Sirius seems lost in his misery.

“A ghost wouldn’t remember the last thing you told me, Sirius. You told me to trust you, the week before…you know. You told me to trust you.”

In one fluid motion, Sirius springs up and is grasping the bars of his cell, fingers curling over Remus’, staring into his face. “Why are you here?”

“Padfoot, look.” Remus gestures to the dog, and Sirius’ eyes widen. 

“You’re here to—” He stumbles on his words, Remus wonders if he’s spoken much in the last year. “Oh, God, you’re here. Have you found him? Caught him?”

Remus shakes his head. “I need you for that.”

Sirius is transforming, and though Remus is prepared to widen the spaces between the bars, just a little, he has no need of it. Padfoot has always been a big dog. But he’s lost weight. He fits through. And then Remus is pointing his wand at the other dog, the one that is not Sirius, and the mouse is back in his pocket, and they are following the dementor back to the Porter’s office. The dementor does not know no one remains in the cell. It can tell there are feeling creatures, it cannot tell how many.

The Porter nods to Remus, says, “Good night.” 

“Thank you,” Remus says, and shakes his hand. Padfoot is at Remus’ heels, nudging at the back of his knee. The Porter lets them out the door, and the door is shut on Azkaban. The night is black, but no blacker than the prison, and Sirius Black is out in it, under the stars. 

He curls under the seat in the boat, nose on his paws. Remus unties the boat from its mooring, and with another tap of his wand sends it speeding out across the water, back towards land. 

“I imagine it’s been a long time since you saw the sky,” Remus mutters. He finds the Sirius in the sky again, and watches it twinkle. Padfoot whimpers, watching a shooting star streak across the sky and plunge into the horizon. “Make a wish, Padfoot.”

-

_ The cell doors are never opened. The prison is guarded by dementors, who affect the prisoners so as to weaken them to the point where they are unable to consider escape.No one has ever escaped from Azkaban—it is deemed impossible. _

_ \--Albert Cropping,  _ Institutions of Wizarding  Britain _ , page 454 _

-

Of the four Marauders, the two in the sky remain.

  


 


	12. Wishing (and Weeds)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you could wish for anything, what would it be?

August 12th, 1978

Sirius has never liked sun so much as he does now. Sun and grass and lemonade and Remus. 

They’re in the field beyond Remus’ parents house, which makes them both feel younger, because the last time they were here together like this they were sixteen. A lot has happened between then and now. It’s mid-afternoon, and they’re worn out from the general trauma of getting Remus on the motorbike to come here, which was only achieved by the great persuasiveness of a few good snogs. Remus does not trust any machine put together largely by magic. 

The grass curves up around Sirius’ neck and tickles his ears, and he stretches his fingers in it, brown and dry grass that smells like hay. His hand is shading his eyes from the sun, creating a latticework shadow of fingers across his face.

“If you could wish for anything, what would it be?” Sirius plucks a dandelion gone to seed and twirls it in his fingers, grinning at it. 

“More lemonade,” Remus replies cheerfully. “We’re very nearly out.”

“You would not,” Sirius says, rolling on his side to look, resting his chin on Remus’ forearm. The other man is laying on his stomach reading a book. His hair flops into his eyes. 

“If you say your wish out loud it doesn’t come true.”

“Some wishes do. For example, if you wished out loud right now for Sirius Black to kiss you, that wish would come true.” 

“I don’t think that counts.” Sirius watches him read, watches the quirk of his mouth as he comes to a phrase he likes, or the powerful concentration when he is drawn into a turn of the plot. He is reading _The Great Gatsby_ , which Sirius has already read. Remus is reading it mostly because he finds the idea of a classic that Sirius has read and he has not unsettling. He has not been able to get out of Sirius _why_ he read it.

“Come on Moony, spread some nice dandelion seeds all over the place. You know how much your mother wants more weeds.” Sirius holds the dandelion up in front of Remus’ mouth, blocking his view of the book. 

“You’re horrible.” 

“Why, thank you. Now make a wish.”

Remus blows at the flower, and they watch as the seeds drift off, caught by the breeze and twirling toward the blue, _blue_ sky.

“What did you wish for, Remus?”

He grins and kisses Sirius soundly. He’ll never tell. He wants it too much.


	13. Remembering Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are there some things you’ve forgotten, then?”

August 13th, 1982

They go north. Sirius spends all his time as Padfoot, both for his safety, and, Remus suspects, so that he doesn’t have to think too hard. They travel the Muggle way, taking trains. Sometimes Remus has to talk them into letting a dog on board. 

By night they are deep into Scotland, and Padfoot watches solemnly as Remus pulls a tent out of his rucksack and puts it together without magic. It is very small, but more on the scale of a small flat than a small tent. There is a bed and a tiny kitchen and a bathroom. They are camped on the edges of a forest, trusting to the wilderness to keep them safe. 

Remus makes tea and pours two cups. Sirius has to emerge from his doggy appearance some time. 

“I remember that. I remember you making tea.”

Sirius’ voice is harsh, he’s lost the smooth way he used to speak, the way he used to dictate the emotions he put into his words. Now everything he speaks is raw and utterly uncensored. 

“Are there some things you’ve forgotten, then?”

“Yes.” He pauses and stares at his cup of tea, like he isn’t sure what to do with it. “So Dumbledore believed me, then. And he told you.”  


“Drink your tea, Sirius.” Remus’ voice is soft, a little awed. He’s not sure he believes in Sirius’ existence, has spent a year trying to forget him. Certainly never thought he’d see Sirius _here_.

“I’m so sorry. It was my fault, all my fault.” He trails off, but Remus can almost hear him thinking it. _Sorry, sorry, sorry. I should have died. Would have died, anything. Anything but that._ Remus sighs, and then wishes he hadn’t. He is so tired of sighing.

“I know. We’ll find Peter, I promise. We’ll do to him what he did to James and Lily. We’ll clear your name.” He’s not sure he can make that promise, but he has to believe in it, because he has to make Sirius believe in it. 

“Together?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Sirius drinks his tea. It has grown a little cold, but he can’t remember what tea tastes like warm, so it doesn’t matter. “The first time we kissed—tell me.”

Remus wishes they could put this off. He doesn’t want to stir hope. He’s been disappointed too many times. Somewhere his mind whispers, _we tried twice. Third time the charm?_ But he wants Sirius to remember. Because if Voldemort took those memories, like he took James and Lily, Frank and Alice Longbottom, even Peter, then he’d won. 

“It was the summer after fifth year. We were in a hot air balloon with the others, and James’ dad. I kissed you. I didn’t know why.” Remus says this mechanically, almost as if he were reciting facts. He wishes he had photos of that day.

“I remember the balloon,” says Sirius. “It was blue and gold. I remember other things too, but I can’t be sure any more whether they happened or whether I imagined them or dreamed them. You can imagine things, you know, even when you’re around dementors. It’s not happy, because you know it isn’t real, so they can’t take it.”

He sinks onto the bed, setting his teacup down on the cover and watching Remus. “I’m old, Remus.”

“You’re only twenty-two.” Sirius shakes his head, and goes to look at the bookshelf on the other side of the bed. He pulls down _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , and Remus’ breath chokes him, he coughs and sinks down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “God, I used to love that book.”

Sirius almost laughs, pulls the book down and thumbs through it. “At least it wasn’t fifteen years, Remus. At least you didn’t go and marry your cousin. You didn’t, did you?”

“I haven’t any cousins.”

“How can it be that I remember the plot of this stupid book, and I don’t remember what your face looks like when you wake up after a full moon, or what you said after you kissed me? What did you say?” 

“Nothing coherent.” Remus drinks his tea like he isn’t sure what else to do, because drinking tea is normal, and nothing else about this situation is. “You’ll remember, Sirius. I’ll help you remember.”

“I do remember. I just don’t remember things that actually happened. I remember us going on holiday to Italy, but I know that didn’t happen. I remember us going to Harry’s second birthday party, too, but the only birthday present I ever gave Harry was for his first. I owe him a birthday present.”

“We’ll get him birthday presents. We’ll get him a birthday present for everyone who should and can’t.” Remus moves forward, coming to Sirius, and pulls him into his arms. Sirius is smaller than Remus remembers, more angular. He used to move with such grace, but he’s lost some of it. Forgotten. “Go take a shower, Sirius. Goodness knows you need it.” Sirius laughs a little.

In the morning, they go south again. Sirius wants to remember Harry’s second birthday party.


	14. Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time they reach the pond, they look like they’ve already been in it.

August 14th, 1976

That afternoon, the three of them show up on Remus Lupin’s front porch in the rain, dripping wet. In their swim trunks. This, Remus thinks, cannot end well. 

Sirius watches Remus carefully, and thinks he looks a little cornered. They’ve been avoiding each other, and Sirius jumps a little every time anybody mentions Remus. James has noticed, but Sirius has refused to tell him anything. He doesn’t want to reason it out with anybody, though he’s done nothing else with himself. He doesn’t want to think about why Remus kissed him, all he wants to think about is the fact that he did.

It was James’ idea, when Peter mentioned the pond up the hill from Remus’ house. The rain would not deter him, nor would Sirius’ argument that they ought not to disturb Remus. “What else are friends for?” James replied. So here they are.

“What—” Remus clears his throat. “What are you lot doing here?”

“Wanted a swim,” James answers. “Came to drag you with us.”

Remus very carefully avoids looking straight at Sirius. He’s not sure he wants to know what he’d see if he did. “You have noticed it’s raining?”

“That’s half the fun. Honestly, haven’t any of you ever gone swimming in the rain?” They all stare at him.

“Prongs, we’re not all bonkers like you,” Peter says. 

“Actually, I think we might be. It’s not just him that’s half dressed and sopping.” Sirius’ voice sounds ever so slightly forced. Remus wonders if it actually sounds forced or if he’s just imagining it. He isn’t sure which option he would prefer. 

“Oh, all right,” Remus says. 

-

By the time they reach the pond, they look like they’ve already been in it. It is raining in the careless, abandoned way it sometimes does in summer, and it smells of rain. Smells like warm cleanliness and sodden grass, and a little of the August dust the rain is beating off the ground. A little, Sirius thinks, like Remus after he has spent an entire Sunday in the library with his books. 

There’s a little wooden dock jutting out into the pond. Sirius races to the end of it and skids the last few feet, stopping just in time. Remus comes slowly behind him, ambling up and peering over the edge into the water, which reflects the clouded sky. “Jump with me, Moony,” Sirius says.

-

Ages ago, Peter was unanimously elected their photographer. Sirius was adamant that they should remember everything, and pass it on for posterity, because, really, “we are important and fabulous and handsome, and people jolly well ought to know it.” So he has a camera in a converted grey schoolbag, spelled to keep off everything from dust to wet to raspberry jam. They trust him to know when the time for photographs is ripe.

He pulls out the camera, and presses the shutter button before the moment is lost. 

Later, they will go through the photos, tossing aside the ones that show Sirius with a half-chewed sandwich in his mouth, and James from behind bending over to tie his shoes. But they save this one, and it travels between walls and frames and shoeboxes and school trunks, back and forth, until it is at last retired, years later, after being saturated in grape juice, and sent to photographic heaven.

For some reason, this roll of film is developed without the usual peculiarity of Wizarding photography. Nobody moves. 

Sirius and Remus take the jump. They are suspended in mid air, limbs flailing, the picture of motion sans the animation of it. The back of James’ head, his hair sticking up even while wet, is in the lower right-hand corner, which Peter laments as spoiling the picture. But the others like it, and think the picture better for it. The sky is a mass of clouds behind them, and they are almost silhouettes. 

“Jump with me, Moony,” Sirius says.


	15. Each Other's Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t care where this bus goes, Sirius,” Remus says.

August 15th, 1978

Sirius is working at a Muggle record store, which is a little silly since he has all the money he needs, but they give him a discount on records. He’s already got a stack collecting on the floor by the coffee table, which Remus has tripped over about six times. It’s funny, because the record player is on the other side of the room, so it’s not really convenient, but Sirius has never gone for sense and convenience over whim.

It’s late afternoon, bordering on evening, and Sirius is about to close up shop. Outside, sun has sunk into the sidewalks and the walls, and the brick of the buildings across the street glows a little. The bell over the door jangles when Remus comes in, announcing his presence, but Sirius doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing my jumper,” Remus says, and Sirius jumps and looks up from the magazine he’s reading.

“It’s warm,” Sirius says. “And soft. And you weren’t wearing it, so it looked lonely.”

Remus’ mouth quirks. “Come on, lock up the store, we’re going somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re a bad influence on me, Padfoot. I’m being impulsive.”

This propels Sirius into action, and he can’t help feeling a bit triumphant. He locks the cash register and turns off the lights as Remus watches him, an amused look on his face. He is thinking how Sirius looks responsible, and how he wears the look with a rebellious air. Only Sirius.

They leave the shop (Ye Olde Music Shoppe—Sirius’ boss is a bit strange, really), and get on a bus. They sit in the back, which is empty apart from some newspapers and a sad-looking umbrella. Sirius throws an arm around Remus’ shoulders, lounging across three seats.

“Where’s this bus go, then?” he asks. “Are we going to wind up standing on the edge of a cliff, and you looking melancholy and quoting poetry at me? Or at the seaside somewhere, and I’ll get sand in places no sand should ever go? Maybe we’ll end up in a suburb being fed tea and crumpets by some old lady with lots of cats.” 

“I don’t care where this bus goes, Sirius,” Remus says, and shoves him gently against the window, kissing him on the cheeks, forehead, nose, eyebrows, chin, mouth. Sirius grins and pulls Remus closer by the back of his head. He likes Remus this way because it is a rarity—impulsive, careless, lovely Remus, wearing a jacket Sirius recognises as his own. For a moment they might almost have switched places, and they are pressed so close together that it hardly matters anyway. 

“Quote me some poetry, Remus,” Sirius whispers, leaning his head back against the window and running his thumb across Remus’ cheekbone. 

They are two boys kissing with fierce hope in the back of a bus, wearing each other’s clothes with their hearts still pasted to the sleeves. “We’re not on the edge of a cliff.” 

“Oh, yes we are.” 

_ Si on me presse de dire pourquoi je l’aimais, je sens que cela ne se peut s’exprimer, qu’en respondant: "Parce que c’etait lui, parce que c'etait moi.” _

_ \- Montaigne _

_ _


	16. Two Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, they will worry. Tonight, they make promises.

August 16th, 1982

The night smells of dirt and grass and small animals in the bushes, and Moony, sleeping in the tent. It smells of other things that have no real name, like desperation and fear and _hunger_. Padfoot sits at the door of the tent, breathing. Azkaban made it hard to breathe. He’s making up for lost time. 

They’ve not had an easy time of it. Though Sirius desperately wants to see Harry, wants to be the godfather he promised James he’d be, they both know that finding Peter has to happen first. But finding a rat in  Britain is like finding a needle in a haystack. 

They know Peter. Or they had known him, once. With Voldemort gone, he would go somewhere safe, comfortable. He would wait it out. Somewhere a rat could hide easily, not look out of place, hear the news. A pet shop? A Wizarding family? He would go somewhere he would be fed and cared for. That was what the Peter they had known would do. But the Peter they had known would not betray his friends as this Peter had done.

Would the Peter they did not know go looking for Voldemort, who was rumoured to be not quite dead after all? If he was in a position to hear the news, surely he would have heard by now that Sirius Black had broken out of Azkaban. What would he do with that news? He must know _why_ —there was a crime Sirius had been sent to Azkaban for that he had never committed….

Between the trees in front of the tent, something silver steps. In a moment, Padfoot is shifting, bones changing, fur disappearing, and Sirius stands there, wand in hand. It looks like a floating mass of thoughts, the contents of a Pensieve spilled into the woods. Like a Patronus, but more solid, and with more colour. Sirius holds his breath. 

The silver thing comes slowly forward, and as it does it is revealed as _two_ silver things, and Sirius makes a small noise like a sleeping dog. He wonders if he is dreaming. This feels like a dream. Sirius isn’t sure whether he wants it to be a dream or not, doesn’t stop to consider.

The stag and his lady stop, watching. Waiting. Sirius wonders if he should call for Moony, but he doesn’t want to wake him. Remus needs his sleep. 

“I promise you,” Sirius breathes, and he isn’t sure what it is he’s promising, but he knows he’ll keep the promise. To be a godfather to Harry, to find Peter, to take care of Remus, to fix what’s broken. 

The stag and doe look at each other, and then they are gone. 

In the next moment, Sirius is inside the tent, moving as softly as Padfoot, and he’s crawling into bed with Remus, pressing kisses against his cheeks, and then Remus is awake, or nearly so, and kissing back. His face is warm with sleep, and Sirius is cold with sitting in the night air, and soon they’re both flushed. Remus rolls over, pinning Sirius, and brushes his hair out of his eyes. 

“I saw them, Moony,” Sirius whispers. “I saw Prongs and Lily.” 

“You saw—but, Sirius,” Remus says softly.

“I saw them,” Sirius says with all the conviction in the world. “I saw them.”

And Remus believes him. 

In the morning, they will worry. In the morning, they will ask questions, and plan, and remember that all is not right with the world. Sirius will keep his promises. Tonight, he has another promise to make—to Remus, spoken in the touch of fingertips against hipbone, and the crash of noses and jaws. That they will never mistrust each other again. 

Remus has not felt so present in years, so alive. Like all his insides are pressing against his skin to get out and go dancing around the room. Like he’s watching himself, and he’s seen it all before, this life, it’s all familiar. It’s like déjà vu. He wraps his arms around Sirius, pulls him close, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, finding scars that weren’t there the last time they did this. Azkaban has left its mark, but in this moment, it’s almost as if none of that ever happened. Sirius has always lived in the moment, but for Remus it’s a rare thing to be truly free of the future and the past.

“I missed you, Sirius,” he says into Sirius’ shoulder, and it’s almost not really speech but breath. 

“You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

They will fall asleep together, the guard they meant to keep forgotten. They are the only two people in the world tonight. There is no one to guard themselves against.


	17. Aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Midsummer’s Eve, and Remus, connected to the seasons and the months as he is by the silver thread of the moon, knows it well.

August 17th, 1982

_ Dear Professor Dumbledore, _

_ I would be much obliged if you would grant me the run of the Hogwarts library tonight. I have one or two things I need to research in furthering the search for Peter Pettigrew. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience, considering it is the summer holidays. Please reply by return of this owl. _

_ Sincerely,  
Remus Lupin _

-

The walk up the road to Hogwarts is painfully familiar, after the passing of several years since the last time Remus was here. How many times did they run down here together, on the way to Hogsmeade, with plans in their heads and pranks up their sleeves? How many times did they pass up this road in the carriages pulled by invisible creatures on September 1st? Padfoot, trotting at Remus’ heels, whines quietly and bumps his head against the back of Remus’ knees. 

The front doors are shut, but Remus knows to let himself in. There’s a hush over the school that submerges them the moment they step inside. It comes of an entire summer without the chaos of hundreds of teenage wizards and witches, and it’s not something either of them remembers every experiencing in school. With the Marauders around, Hogwarts was never a quiet place. They walk slowly up the marble staircase, heading straight for the library. How many times did they come this way, off to study after dinner? How many times did they spend an afternoon in the library, researching the spells behind a prank? It’s strange to be back here once again.

-

_ “McGonagall is going to be sorry she taught us about solstice rituals.” Four boys race up the stairs to the library, eager to begin their plans. Well, two boys race. One hangs behind, half pretending he has nothing to do with it, and the other is frantically reading a passage out of a heavy blue charms textbook over and over again.  _

_ “You should really be studying for your O.W.L.s, and not planning something I refuse to know nothing about,” Remus says to James and Sirius, half-heartedly attempting to fulfill his duties as prefect.  _

_ “I never study, Moony, it’s against my religion, or something. Anyway, I know it all.” _

_ “If you get D’s on all your O.W.L.s, don’t come crying to me.” _

_ “How’re the tracking spells coming, Pete?” James asks, walking backward up the stairs and nearly crashing into a suit of armour. Sirius sniggers at him and receives a thwacking upside the head.  _

_ “Horrible,” Peter mutters, and nearly trips over the stair, so caught up is he with the book.  _

-

It’s dark, the torches along the walls which are always lit during school are cold. The people in the portraits along the wall, men in ruffs and tights and armour, women in vast awkward gowns, children, pigs, horses, all are quiet. Some look mildly surprised to see anyone but the usual—Filch, the house elves, Hagrid, Professor Dumbledore. Others are asleep or looking dulled by the lack of gossip, with no children to disturb them, and few teachers to greet them. Remus wonders where the ghosts are.

They come to the doors of the library, and he can’t help holding his breath. This was _his_ library. He spent hours here, studying, reading, avoiding people, kissing Sirius in the corners between shelves. 

It’s dark. Remus flicks his wand at the lamp on one of the study tables. “All clear,” he murmurs to Padfoot, looking around. Sirius passes him on the way into the shelves. 

“What should we look for?” Sirius asks softly, unwilling to disturb the quiet dust.

“Try the section on location. I’m going to look under identification.”

-

_ They are spread across the table in the back corner, books and parchment and quills, pots of ink, gangly limbs. James and Sirius mutter suggestions to each other, making notes and calculations on long scrolls of parchment, skimming great dusty tomes for ideas.  _

_ It’s Midsummer’s Eve, and Remus, connected to the seasons and the months as he is by the silver thread of the moon, knows it well. He’s been watching the way the sun stretches, further into the night, leaving him more time to study before bed without having to light his wand. It’s one of those things he can feel in the pit of his stomach and the soles of his feet. But he’s always liked the equinoxes better, really. He likes balance, and the supposed passions of Midsummer are a little alien to him. He thinks that spending Midsummer’s Eve going over his Potions notes is a little inauspicious, but O.W.L.s start tomorrow, and he is determined not to fail. Remus sighs, and goes searching for the page on the Draught of Living Death. _

_ “Peter, why don’t you study something else for a while,” Remus suggests.  _

_ “Flitwick said tracking spells were sure to be a big part of the Charms Owl. I can’t fail that one, it’s Mum’s favourite subject.” He places his wand flat on his palm and mutters a spell. The wand spins wildly for a moment, and then settles pointing over his left shoulder. “Oh, damn. I was aiming for James.” _

-

“I think at such long distance, we’re going to need something of Peter’s to focus on. Clothes, or one of his belongings that he handled a lot.” Sirius can see Remus slipping into that place in his head where there is nothing but words, words and pictures and ideas. 

“You’d make a good teacher, Remus,” Sirius says, and it’s not teasing like it was in school, when McGonagall suggested he become a professor in their career meeting, and he never heard the end of it. He’d always been good at explaining things, spells and theory and history, and now he has more patience than he used to. Remus has spent a lot of time waiting for things. 

He only stares for a minute, and then continues with his train of thought. “I have his old camera, I suppose that would work.”

“How’d you get the camera?” Sirius asks, startled. It had been _their_ camera, the Marauder camera, and Wormtail had been the photographer. He was always taking pictures of the four of them, almost until the very end. 

“After—you know, when we thought he was dead. His mother gave me a box of photos of the four of us, and the camera was in there. I never looked at any of it, but it’s still there, in the back of my closet.” Remus dives behind a stack of books, reaching for a tiny blue leather-covered one. He doesn’t look at Sirius. 

-

_ “So, a bonfire then. Middle of the Great Hall, right? And we switch everyone’s drinks for mead—perfectly traditional, perfectly alcoholic. Only, if we could make it taste like what it was before, then nobody would know it was anything different, and they’d be drunk and not know why.” James outlines the plan to Sirius, his hands moving in the air as he speaks. James has always thought best out loud.  _

_ “Might be difficult, we won’t know what it was they were drinking before,” Sirius says a little sceptically. Remus is sceptical at Sirius’ uncertainty. This magic is simple compared to other things they’ve done.  _

_ “Oh bother,” Peter says as his spell goes wrong again. “Bother and damn.” _

_ “You should be able to get this, it’s like the Map, only without paper,” Remus says helpfully over his Arithmancy textbook. “You’ve got to really concentrate—not on your wand, but on what you’re trying to find. Try it again.” _

_ Peter places his wand back on his palm and mutters the charm again. It spins, stops sharply, and then spins back the other way, landing directly on James. Peter gets up and moves back and forth experimentally, but the wand continues pointing at James.  _

_ “I’ve got it!” Peter shouts joyfully. Several harried-looking seventh-years glare at him from across the aisle. _

-

Remus is tired, and a little dismayed to realise that his ability to spend endless hours staring at tiny print seems to have faded somewhat. It’s been a long time since he’s studied like this. He sighs again, and Sirius glances up. “Maybe we should take a break,” Sirius suggests. “I bet the house elves would make us sandwiches.”

Remus shakes his head. “No, not yet.” Sirius smiles. It’s so familiar, Moony amid a pile of books. It’s like a photograph you’ve looked at so many times you could recreate it in your mind’s eye. Sirius has done just that, during those nights in Azkaban when he couldn’t picture the overly pale eyebrows, somewhat large nose, faint scars and freckles. Couldn’t picture them, except in the place they were most often seen. 

He watches Remus, and knows he’s changed, sees the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faintly grey tinge to the hair at the edges of his forehead. Things have changed, yes, but there are so many things that will always be the same. The quirk of lips reserved for moments of pure concentration, the way Sirius knows Remus will look up when he’s figured it out like he’s waking from a deep sleep. 

“Oh,” Remus breathes. “I’ve got it.” He’s growing more and more excited, shoves the book across the table and points out a passage. 

“Fore the Fynding of Certayne Persons,” Sirius reads, and knows. That’s it. They will find Peter Pettigrew.

-

_ “I’ve got it,” Peter says again, triumphant. “I’ve got it.” _

_ _

__  



	18. Mischief-Making Fey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like a storybook, one with lovely colourful pictures. It’s like a fairytale.

August 18th, 1976

“Moony, wake up.” Remus knows, on the edges of sleep, that someone is speaking to him, but all he hears is murmuring, hushed whispers of nothing. “Moony, Moony, Moony.” He opens his eyes and everything looks a little blurry, but he sees Sirius crouched over him, hair wild and eyes glowing, with a finger to his lips. 

“Sirius, what?” Remus whispers, glancing over at James and Peter, who are nothing but slumbering lumps in their sleeping bags. “Why didn’t you wake _them_ up?”

“I wanted you. Come on Moony, come away.” He grabs Remus by the hand and pulls at him to get up, and Remus does, because Sirius looks different somehow and he can’t help obeying. They duck outside the tent, Remus barefoot, in his faded red plaid flannel pyjama pants that hang loose around his hips, grey t-shirt. Sirius sleeps in his underwear, and he hasn’t put anything more on for this, whatever this is. 

They are camped by the edge of a stream, which pools just below their camp in a round pond. The stream rushes by quietly, and Remus thinks it’s the sort of place you might see some beautiful not-quite-human lady bathing in the pond, who disappears when next you look. It’s like a storybook, one with lovely colourful pictures. It’s like a fairytale. 

Sirius is smiling enigmatically, still gripping Remus by the hand. He looks a little fey, not-quite-human, with his high cheekbones and sharp chin, his hair like a woodland creature. His eyes, usually grey, are liquid silver. Sirius always looks like this, but something about the night gives it an otherworldly quality. Even Remus, who usually feels painfully ordinary, can’t help feeling a little strange. 

And then they’re walking, and slipping down the rocks toward the pond. Sirius lets go of Remus’ hand and, never self-conscious, slips out of his pants, and dives into the pool. Remus is a little surprised to find he is _not_ surprised. “Come on, Moony.” 

It’s going to be cold, Remus knows. He tries to convince himself he likes the cold, as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. He steps out of his trousers, too, conscious of the scar at his hip, below his collarbone, across his thigh. Hesitantly, he sinks into the water. 

Sirius swims like he was born to it, not a dog paddle as might be expected, but an elegant breaststroke. Remus is forcibly reminded of the selkie stories he learnt as a child, and wonders—if he stole Sirius’ dog skin, would he have Sirius captive? But he doesn’t want a captive Sirius. 

“Are you a changeling, Sirius? A faerie child?” Remus murmurs, half wondering whether that isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t think Sirius hears him, but then he comes up, treading water in front of Remus, all pale wet skin and smile like a demon or a mischief-making fey. 

“No, Moony. All human.” He spreads his arms wide, holding a bowl of silk night-black water between them. And the next thing Remus knows, Sirius’ hands are on his neck, brushing water across his Adam’s apple and curving round to the edge of his jaw. His breath catches, and he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, and somehow they wind up running down Sirius’ spine under the water. “All human,” Sirius mumbles into his mouth. 

Remus doesn’t remember how they got back up the stream and back to bed. In the morning, he wonders whether it was a dream, moonlight and shadows. In the noon sun, Sirius really does look all human.


	19. Snapshots of a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a funny thing, time.

August 19th, 1971

Remus spends the last two weeks of summer in a constant state of nervous excitement. His parents look happier than they have in a long time, so proud are they that their son, a werewolf, is going to Hogwarts. He marks off the days on the calendar, half willing time to move faster, half wanting it to slow down, so that he can savour this excitement before it is too much tinged with anxiety. 

It’s a funny thing, time.

  


August 19th, 1973

The first time Sirius comes to Remus’ house, they play scrabble. It seems a harmless game enough, at first. Sirius has never played it, of course, since his family’s idea of a harmless board game closely approximates Jumanji. They are sitting on the front porch, drinking Mrs. Lupin’s famous lemonade, and Sirius is bored with the game, at first. Until he realizes that he can spell out dirty words with the scrabble tiles. 

This, to a thirteen year old boy, will make anything interesting.

  


August 19th, 1976

It’s late afternoon when Remus gets home, exhausted and sweaty, and ready to sleep for the next ten years. He greets his parents (“Are you hungry, darling?” and “How was the fishing?”) and goes upstairs to shower. Because Merlin knows he needs it. 

He’s standing at the bathroom sink before he has a chance to really pause and think. A blank and somewhat mind-numbing panic sets in. _Oh, god_. _I got kissed by Sirius Black._ Somehow, it doesn’t quite register that _he_ kissed Sirius first. Precedents, Mr. Moony, Sirius would say. _Oh, to have a time-turner_ , Remus thinks. 

But then, he can’t help wondering. And somehow, suddenly, he doesn’t want that time-turner so much anymore. Unless it’s to go through the whole thing over again.

  


August 19th, 1977

They relearn themselves and each other. How to joke, poke fun, touch each other without jumping three feet and spending the next four hours stumbling over their words. It will take time to go back, to go forward. They both know this, yet they are both impatient.

“How’s good old Oscar?” Sirius asks, flopping down on the grass next to Remus.

Remus closes _The Importance of Being Earnest_ on his bookmark. “Better, before you got here.”

Sirius knows that Remus only sounds angry when he isn’t.

  


August 19th, 1979

The summer Lily Evans marries James Potter (finally), she spends a lot of time watching people. She’s so happy in her own love that she looks for signs of it in everyone else. A more unsubtle woman would have tried her hand at matchmaking. (James’ second cousin Ella would be simply perfect for Gideon Prewett.) But Lily only watches and smiles. 

It’s Remus and Sirius she finds herself watching most. She remembers noticing Remus at school, and being surprised by how often she saw shades of herself in a friend of James Potter and Sirius Black. He would be following behind, usually with a lot of books, and Lily would see, suddenly, how protective Sirius always was of his friend. Now, they come over for dinner, and she sees how Sirius’ hand rests easily on Remus’ thigh as they eat, and how Remus’ fingers brush across the back of Sirius’ neck as he leans across to grab a book off the coffee table.

  


August 19th, 1982

Remus watches as the folded and rather battered road map of  Britain slips out of Sirius’ fingers into the bluish-grey solution. It sinks below the surface and the liquid closes over it, rippling slightly. Potions was never Remus’ strong suit, and he envies the way Sirius handles it so deftly. This part of the process falls to Sirius. Remus will have the spellwork to do. 

After exactly seven minutes, Sirius pulls the paper out of the solution with a sterilized pair of tongs. They must not touch it. Peter’s old camera, a bit battered and worn, is sitting on Remus’ kitchen table next to the paper, which no longer looks like a map. The lines have faded entirely away, and the colours run together so that it is a dull and ugly grey. 

Sirius moves to stand behind Remus, a hand on his left shoulder, lending strength and warmth. Remus sets the tip of his wand to the camera, and begins, after a breath, to intone a string of Latin. Sirius, whose Latin is rustier than Remus’ but who understands the gist of the spell, hears once or twice the name: _Peter Pettigrew_. It gives him shivers. Presently, Remus stops speaking, and something begins to seep out of the camera. It moves like the contents of a Pensieve, but is pale brown in colour. The colour of Wormtail’s fur.

An address appears on the paper in deep blue ink. Remus wonders whose handwriting it is. It looks a little like Lily’s. 

The Kitchen  


17 Alder Road   


Little Whinging,  
Surrey

Remus breathes out.

  


August 19th, 1993

When Professor McGonagall mentions in a letter to Remus that Hermione Granger will be given a time-turner to help her get to all her classes, he starts thinking about time-turners. The pranks they could have pulled with a time-turner in hand when they were at school—Remus doesn’t like to think. They were idiots, then. Time is dangerous business. But he still remembers it fondly. 

It’s been a long time. Some things have changed, and others—not. A long time, since Remus himself was going to Hogwarts…. One hundred ninety-two thousand, seven hundred and twenty turns should do the trick.


	20. For Tea and Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the first time he’s really felt like death is possible.

August 20th, 1978

That night, Sirius comes so close to dying he can feel a cold breath at his heels. He lies in the rubble of the warehouse, something heavy across his left leg, feeling blood moving sluggishly from the cuts at his shoulder and his head, and stares at the night sky. The moon is up there, only just beginning to wane, and Sirius smiles at it before he slips out of consciousness. 

Next he knows, there’s a warm breath on his face, and something cool and fresh healing his cuts. He sucks in breath and makes a noise like an injured puppy as the heavy thing (stone? metal pipe? that table that was in the corner?) is levitated off his leg and moved away. _Sirius_. _Padfoot_. He passes out again. 

Eyes open. His head is tucked under Moony’s chin, nose pressed into his collarbone. Remus has no shirt on; his arms are wrapped around Sirius to keep him warm. The blankets have slipped down to their waists. Remus’ chest rises and falls with the heavy breaths of sleep. Sirius blinks and sighs. 

Somewhere about him is the thing for which he left his parents’ house. The thing for which he became an Animagus. The thing that explains why he thinks this poky little flat that’s always either too warm or too cold is one of the best places in the world. Sirius lives with abandon. He is never happy unless he is free to choose his freedoms—there are some things he never wants to be free of, and he wants to choose what they are. 

It’s the first time he’s really felt like death is possible. Like he might not survive, Remus might not survive, James and Peter and Lily might not survive. Sirius does not want to die, but he knows there are things—and people—that are worth dying for. 

“What would you die for, Moony?” Sirius mumbles into Remus’ chest, so close he can feel his heartbeat. “I bet you’d die for all the tea in  China , you like tea. Or chocolate. A lifetime supply of chocolate. Only that’s a bit of a paradox, huh, because if you die a lifetime supply doesn’t do you much good.” He can tell his cuts are fully healed, and his leg no longer hurts, though it’s a bit stiff, and tangled in the blankets. He can’t imagine moving, is much too comfortable. These are serious (Sirius, seriously) questions he’s asking, but he prattles on anyway like he doesn’t really want to know the answer. Remus is asleep anyway. 

“When you wake up I bet you’re going to scold me for getting in trouble like that. You are, aren’t you? I’m sorry, anyway, no one actually likes getting nearly blown up. And I was doing it for you, so you’d better be grateful. I always do it for you.” Sirius is growing less and less coherent, closer and closer to sleep. He shuts his eyes, and is gone into dreams.

Remus smiles. “I know, Sirius."


	21. Blancmange vs. Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s good at toast and tea.

August 21st, 1978

Remus likes plain food. Bread, cheese, a bit of meat. Potatoes. Fresh fruit, vegetables straight out of the garden. He’s easy to please, really, when it comes to food. This is probably a good thing, since he has no money and no cooking skills, apart from toast and tea. He’s good at toast and tea. 

That day they bunk off work and take the train out of the city, looking for somewhere to remember that they are young, still just boys, really. It’s summer, Sirius says, wheedling Moony into coming, and it works, because Moony can never say no to Padfoot. And because he wants to believe that they are just boys, two boys in a field in the country, breathing in the scent of hay. 

Sirius, however, likes his food fancy. It’s a relic of his days as the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of ~~Black~~ Madmen. He likes foie gras and coq au vin, and has a strange fondness for blancmange. He likes wine. He comes home frequently with take-away bags from Chinese and Greek and Indian restaurants, which, though cheap, is much more interesting than a sandwich thrown together from whatever’s in the kitchen. 

Remus would just as soon take the sandwich. 

All the grass is brown, past the damp heat of July and into the scorching heat of August. They chase each other across the field, leaping over a low stone wall and nearly crashing into a short and stumpy plum tree. “Look Moony, plums!” Sirius says joyfully, sounding as effusive as a puppy. 

“They probably belong to somebody, we shouldn’t eat them.”

“They’ll never notice.”

It’s just another of those things that go to show that, had they been born several hundred years earlier, Sirius would have been a noble, and Remus would have been a peasant. And Remus is perfectly happy with this. He likes his peasant-food, likes the way no one expects anything of him, like marrying a suitable girl for the good of the family, or being an aristocratic git always above his company. All those things Sirius would have done had he not left home. 

Of course, had they been born several hundred years earlier, Remus would never have met Sirius, never become his friend. 

They sit under the tree, leaning together and licking plum juice off their fingers. Remus wishes vaguely for a straw hat and a piece of hay for his teeth, just to complete the picture of summer. Sirius, elegant and languid, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his arm across Remus’ shoulders, looks like a painting of a Greek god. 

Remus thinks he’s getting romantic in the heat, or something. He tries to put all thoughts of picturesque paintings out of his head.

And Sirius may have rather aristocratic tastes, but he’s the unwilling prince, wearing his crown only because he was born to it, and not because it suits him. He’s spent his summers romping through fields and stealing apples off the neighbour’s tree, swimming in rivers and lakes. And here he is, sprawled in the dirt and grass and messily eating warm plums, the picture of recumbent youth. This is where the line is blurred, where it doesn’t matter that Sirius loves blancmange and Remus goes for toast. 


	22. Lawn Chair Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius knows he’s moping, but he can’t help it.

August 22nd, 1976

He’s sitting in the basement of James’ house, ostensibly because it is much cooler here than anywhere else in the house. Mostly he just likes the room, dark and full of spiders, with tiny little windows near the ceiling, and an old lawn chair in the middle. He’s sitting on the lawn chair, thinking. Sirius Black does not just sit and think. This is a very strange occurrence. 

-

_ “Er, Sirius?” Remus is awkward, and fidgeting with the book in his hands, opening and closing it and worrying the edges of the pages. “Um, I was sort of wondering why you kissed me.” He hadn’t meant to bring this up, but it’s been hanging in the air like a big purple signboard that everyone is pretending not to see, and he can’t ignore it any longer.  _

_ Sirius’ mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Why did  _ you _kiss_ me _?”_

_ Well. That wasn’t quite what Remus was expecting him to say. “Er, it was—it wassort of an accident. I, uh, I didn’t mean to do it.” He’s never felt so incoherent in his life.  _

_ “Did you want to do it?” Sirius asks, and Remus thinks there’s a hopeful sound to his voice, but he’s probably imagining it.  _

_ Remus lets out a long breath. “No.” _

-

Sirius has been having strange dreams, the last few days. One where the queen, wearing a pillbox hat, was sitting in the cockpit of a space ship, working the controls as the ship hurtled into the stars. Another where he was stuck inside a suit of armour in one of the corridors at Hogwarts, watching Dumbledore walking back and forth carrying cakes. Usually, Sirius sleeps too deeply to remember dreams, but he’s been so distracted lately he’s been sleeping poorly, and after these dreams he always wakes up and is unable to get back to sleep. 

He sits on the lawn chair in the basement, which is uncomfortable and plastic, brittle with age, cracked in several places. Through one of the tiny windows he can see James and Peter playing chess in the grass in the back yard. He wishes he felt like going out and cheering them on, or giving them bad advice, but he doesn’t.

-

_ “Oh, okay,” Sirius says, disappointed and trying desperately not to show it. “So it was just a—a fluke, then. Okay.” Remus nods sort of apologetically.  _

_ “Shall we go see what Prongs and Wormtail are doing, then?” Sirius follows him outside, but he hardly notices what he’s doing. _

-

Sirius knows he’s moping, but he can’t help it. He hates that he’s moping, but he can’t do anything else. It’s Remus’ fault, and Sirius wants to hate him for it, but he can’t do that either. 

“Damnit, Moony, you weren’t supposed to say no.”  
  


 


	23. Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That Saturday, Remus goes out and buys a photo album.

August 23rd, 1980

The moment Remus feels that he has grown old is the moment he no longer feels like they have all the time in the world. _I grow old… I grow old…_ When they were in school, they used to look forward to _Someday_ , and _When We Grow Up_ , and _Later_. Remus has learned by now that putting things off for later gets you nowhere, but by this time it has become a bad habit. 

That Saturday, Remus goes out and buys a photo album. He knows it’s sentimental of him, knows his friends would call him a girl, but at least it’s got a dark leather cover and isn’t pink or frilly or sparkly. And in these times, it seems like there should be room to be sentimental. In these times, it feels like prudence. Capture moments before they’re gone forever. Because they may not have a chance to make new ones.

Standing at the counter of the bookshop and handing over Muggle bills to a dour shopkeeper, Remus thinks about Harry. Less than a month old. If nothing else, he’ll keep a record for Harry, fill the photo album with pictures of his parents and their friends, maybe their letters and notes and ideas. Small things. 

Remus is sitting on the floor of their bedroom, sorting through envelopes of photographs, when Sirius pokes his head around the door. “Hello, Moony. Want to hear what Harry did this morning?”

“What did Harry do?” Remus asks absently, watching 13-year-old photo-Sirius grinning and sticking his tongue out at him. 

“He stole Prongs’ wand and made his stuffed lion come to life—Lily got a bit cross, so I thought it best to scarper.” Sirius notices suddenly what is distracting Remus, and looks startled. “What are you doing, Remus?” 

Remus looks a bit embarrassed, pink around the edges. “Making a photo album. It seemed like the thing to do.” Sirius sits down behind Remus and smiles over his shoulder at the younger version of himself.

“I didn’t know you had that photo.”

“I stole it from James in fifth year.” Sirius sprawls past Remus’ knee and lies on his stomach, looking through the photos Remus has spread across the floor. 

“It’s a good idea,” he says unexpectedly. “The photo album.” 

They don’t say why. Sirius makes sure there are an equal number of photos of Remus in the album, because Remus can’t be trusted not to leave himself out. They are quiet for some time, and bit by bit they come to realise that it is raining, a steady beat on the roof, a hint of autumn. Remus considers making tea. 

He is standing at the kitchen sink filling the kettle while Sirius packs away the photographs, thinking about libraries. He is a lifelong library-card-holder, but he’d much rather own books. He dreads their due date, stamped on the card inside the cover of the book, and it’s a similar dread he feels now. That this time, their happiness, the snatched peace in the middle of the war, is only borrowed, a library book that many people have read and all have had to return. And he’s dreading the due date. Because even though someday he and Sirius may run out of things to say to one another, it’s better than having no opportunity to say anything at all. 

It’s why he’s making this photo album, though he isn’t going to say so. Because it’s a book he owns, that he doesn’t have to give back. Because it contains snatches of the books he’ll have to return. 

The sad thing is that Remus knows—when those times come, he’ll never look at that album. Rereading those books will cause him too much pain.


	24. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know they call this ‘the place God made last and the devil will take first’?”

August 24th, 1982

“My mother took me here once,” Remus says. He stands at the tip of Morte Point, the wind whipping his hair back from his face. Were he not dressed in shabby Muggle clothes, he might have the appearance of a sorcerer out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. 

“It’s cold,” Sirius murmurs. He doesn’t quite feel it, having grown used to being cold in Azkaban, but he thinks it ought to be said, because Remus must be cold and Sirius knows he won’t do anything about it. Remus is stubborn about things like that. Always has been.

“I know it is.”

Things have been…difficult. Luck has not been on their side. “Excuse me madam, but would you happen to own a pet rat?” And a little girl, with blonde pigtails, running out and tugging at Remus’ coat. “Did you find him, did you find him?” Padfoot, at Remus’ heels, growling low in his throat. Remus kneels, facing the little girl. 

“He was missing a toe, wasn’t he? He only had four toes on his left front paw.” The little girl nods. “You lost him? He ran away?” She nods again. Remus swallows uneasily. He stands up and nods to the little girl’s mother. “Thank you.”

“Do you think he knew we were coming?” Sirius asks, his hand on Remus’ shoulder. Several seagulls hop along the rocks below, calling loudly. Sirius glares at them, for lack of anything else to glare at. 

“I’m sure he knew we were coming.” 

“Well, where the bloody hell do you think he went, then?” 

“I don’t know, Sirius.”

Remus sits down on a bit of rock and stares out to sea. It is a lovely view, though Sirius isn’t really in the mood to appreciate it. “Are you going to sit here all day, then?”

“You know they call this ‘the place God made last and the devil will take first’?” Remus says, his words almost carried away across the cliffs by the wind. Sirius doesn’t answer.

“Do you know why we came to  Devon , Sirius?”

“No. Why?” Sirius has been curious about this, but Remus insisted, and wouldn’t say why.

“I don’t know.”


	25. Between Two Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius has always been running between two thieves. Past and future, each trying to steal from Sirius’ present.

August 25th, 1982

Sirius has always lived in the moment. He knows Remus wishes he could live like Sirius does, but Sirius has never thought it that admirable. It’s born out of a desire to forget the past and a fear of the future. He doesn’t want to think about what _may_ happen or what _has_ happened, so he thinks about what _is_ happening. 

What he’s thinking about now is the way Remus’ back feels pressed against his chest as they crouch in a tiny alleyway between the local bakery and a tall wooden fence. He’s thinking about the voices of Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory, keeping them from moving. He’s wondering why they decided to come through Ottery St. Catchpole on their way back to  London , when it’s full of wizards and witches and they want to avoid people they know.

Sirius buries his face in the back of Remus’ jumper and listens past Remus’ breathing for the signs that their two unwitting captors are leaving. “How’s your son, then? Not causing too much trouble, I hope? My boys wreak havoc.” Arthur is jovial. Sirius wishes he would get on with it and move away so Sirius can unfold his knees. 

“He’s very well, thank you. We caught him levitating all the pots and pans in the kitchen last week, he’s showing quite the knack for magic already.” 

“Oh, excellent. My Percy saved a rat from one of the chickens the other day. Sad little thing, all pale and skinny, missing a toe. One moment the chicken nearly had its tale off, next it was on his shoulder.”

Sirius’ fingers begin to shake, and he grips Remus’ upper arm too tight. Remus gasps shallowly and leans backward, almost pushing Sirius off the balls of his feet. Missing a toe…. How many rats could be missing just one toe? It’s Peter, Sirius is sure it is, and he wants to be moving _now_ , not sitting here waiting, as Arthur and Amos exchange pleasantries about their wives. Who could have known they would find the traitor by pure coincidence? 

Sirius has always been running between two thieves. Past and future, each trying to steal from Sirius’ present. He wishes he were running in reality, wand in hand, Remus at his side, running to curse Peter, Wormtail, _the traitor_ into oblivion. 

And then, fading footsteps, Arthur Weasley in one direction and Amos Diggory in the other. Remus stands up seconds behind Sirius. “I’m sending a message to Dumbledore,” he says, and the silvery form of his Patronus erupts from his wand and bounds off. 

“What do we do, Remus?” Sirius asks a little forlornly. The next thing he knows Remus is backing him against the wall and kissing him on the mouth, hard, so hard he feels it in his bones and can’t think of anything but this moment.

“Come on,” Remus says. “Best go doggy.” And he leaves the shelter of their little alleyway, striding out into the road. A moment later a large dog trots out of the alley behind him, menacing as the Grim and far more dangerous. 

It’s easier to live in the moment as a dog than as a human. He pants a little as he runs behind Remus, and enjoys a dog’s pleasure in _doing_. But Sirius is poised to change at a moment’s notice, ready to come out duelling, the moment it will no longer matter that he is Sirius Black and a convicted criminal. Remus knocks sharply at the door of the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley answers, dishcloth in hand. She doesn’t recognise Remus, has never met him more than once or twice, though Sirius and Remus both knew her brothers. “Yes?” 

“Your son—his pet rat—may I see it?” 

“Oh, is it your rat? I was afraid it might belong to someone, it’s so well behaved. I _told_ Percy, but he’s grown so attached to it. Poor thing.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid it does belong to us.” Sirius notes his use of _it_ , and deems it rather appropriate. 

“Percy!” she calls into another room, “Go and get your rat.” 

Padfoot sees the boy pass the kitchen door as he goes up the stairs, watches him as he comes down again with a squirming rat clutched in his small hands. It’s Wormtail, Padfoot knows it the moment he sees him, and from the way Remus tenses Padfoot can tell he’s recognised him too. “Hand him over, Percy, he’s someone else’s pet already.” Reluctantly, Percy passes him to Remus, but before Remus can gather him into his hands the rat has dropped, shot off down the stairs and across the yard. 

Padfoot has changed even before Remus manages to turn around, he hears Mrs. Weasley gasp as she recognises Sirius Black, but he’s not thinking about that, not thinking about anything but the rat and the wellspring of possible spells in his mind as he grabs Remus’ wand out of his back pocket and points it. “ _Petrificus Totalus_!” he shouts, and after nearly a year in Azkaban of not using magic, his aim is still good. The rat freezes, and the rest of the world seems to also, for a moment. 

And then, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” and Remus’ wand flies out of Sirius’ hand. He looks around in surprise to see Mrs. Weasley looking fierce as a mother lion, pointing her wand at Sirius. 

“It wasn’t him!” Remus says to her a little frantically, “He didn’t kill Peter Pettigrew and all those Muggles, he didn’t betray Lily and James Potter. It wasn’t him!”

Mrs. Weasley looks uncertain, but her wand doesn’t waiver. “Who was it, then?” she asks dangerously. 

“Him,” Sirius says, pointing at the rat. “I didn’t kill Peter Pettigrew, _that’_ s Peter Pettigrew.” At this moment he doesn’t care what happens to him, doesn’t care if he goes back to Azkaban or dies or anything else, so long as Peter goes with him. “That’s Peter Pettigrew, and if you’d be so kind as to give me that wand back, I’d like to _actually_ kill him.”

There is a slight pop, a shift of air, and Dumbledore appears, his pointed hat a little crooked on his silver hair. “Thank you, Molly,” he says, gathering his wits faster than most would. “Where is Mr. Pettigrew?” Sirius’ arm is still raised, pointing. Dumbledore walks over and bends to pick up the rat and Sirius’ arm twitches and drops.

“Hello again, Sirius. You’re looking improved since last I saw you.” Dumbledore slips the rat calmly into a pocket of his robes and turns to Mrs. Weasley. “I apologise for imposing upon your hospitality, but a cup of tea would be simply splendid.”

Sirius grins, a broader and happier grin than has been seen on his face in a very long time. He can’t think about what will happen in the future, what difficulties they will have to overcome to get the Ministry to admit that they were wrong, what worries they will face. He can’t think about the past, either, not about Lily and James, or the Peter they had known before he became this Peter, the traitor. He can only think about the present, Mrs. Weasley in a state of shock, making tea, Dumbledore sitting at her kitchen table and rearranging his crooked hat, Remus sinking down onto the front step and burying his head in his hands. There is only this moment, and this moment—this moment is good.


	26. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius is a bit pink in the cheeks, he notices, but he can’t tell whether that’s because of all the ice cream or something else.

August 26th, 1976

Remus doesn’t want to go to Diagon Alley with the others. It’s hot out, and frankly, he’s feeling distinctly lazy. And he’s spent the last four days successfully avoiding Sirius, so he doesn’t want to stop now, for fear of—he doesn’t know what. But he does need to buy his new books and replenish his stock of school supplies, and it would probably be more fun to go with his friends than his parents. Assuming, that is, that he isn’t spending the entire time trying not to say anything to Sirius. 

He feels guilty, and doesn’t know why. Like he’s done something that seemed a good idea at the time and now seems completely wrong. Like he’s failed a test he could have easily passed. 

Remus tries to say no, when they show up in his living room brushing soot off their shoulders and Floo-dizziness off their minds. “Oh, I can’t today, I’m busy,” he says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder.

“Doing what?” James asks innocently.

“Oh, er, um,” Remus says, trying desperately to think of a plausible answer.

“Come on, Moony,” Sirius says, and Remus gives in. Why is it so difficult to say no to Sirius? 

Next thing he knows he’s leaving a note for his parents and being shepherded into green flames and shouting “Diagon Alley!” James is hard at his heels, he stumbles into Peter, and Sirius is last, most elegant, stepping out of the fireplace into the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Where to first?” Peter asks brightly. He can tell something is up, but he’s going to studiously ignore it and hope it goes away soon. That is Peter’s way. 

“Best get all the necessities out of the way first,” Remus suggests, as James and Sirius lead the way into the yard behind the Leaky Cauldron, speaking to each other in the complicated language of gestures and facial expressions and lone words understood only by them two. 

Sirius taps the brick, (three up…two across…Remus has known since the first time he came to Diagon Alley, before he was old enough to have a wand to tap it with) and Diagon Alley opens before them. 

-

It’s beginning to get late—the sun, in the waning of summer, is already sinking past the edges of Gringotts and Flourish and Blott’s. They’ve eaten a lot of ice cream and nothing resembling dinner, which Remus suspects is a Very Bad Idea (though he can’t help his fondness for chocolate and peanut butter ice cream). 

They’re passing Madam Malkin’s, when James cries, “Didn’t you need new dress robes, Peter?” and drags him inside the shop, leaving Sirius and Remus to stand outside. Remus turns to Sirius and opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it again. Sirius is a bit pink in the cheeks, he notices, but he can’t tell whether that’s because of all the ice cream or something else. 

“Er, Remus, would you come over here?” Remus looks over to see Sirius standing in the alley between Madam Malkin’s and Flourish and Blott’s, looking at him hopefully. He slips into the alley beside Sirius, conscious of how small the space is and how he can see Sirius going even pinker. It can’t be the ice cream, unless he’s about to be sick, in which case the small congregation of dustbins behind them will come in handy. 

“Did you, really…not want to kiss me?” Sirius asks, and he really does look like he’s going to need one of those dustbins. 

“I, uh, I already said—oh, bugger.” Remus stops short, staring, and then launches himself at Sirius and presses their mouths together. Sirius stumbles backward into the wall of Madam Malkin’s, and grabs Remus’ chin, unwilling to stop whatever it is they’ve started. This time the kiss has the benefit of being at least semi-deliberate, so it isn’t sloppy and wet like the second or uncomfortable and crooked like the first. It’s a third kiss, and neither of them is any good at it, but they’re getting better, and they laugh into each other’s mouths. 

“I think I lied,” Remus mumbles, speaking into Sirius’ jaw. “Sorry about that.” 

“So, erm,” Sirius says as Remus backs away to look at him, a small smile on his face. “I’m sorry, what?” 

At that, Remus grins like a mad thing, like Sirius when he’s at his most wild, and says, “Come here, you idiot.” 

-

When James and Peter come out of the shop and find the other two missing, James grins and says, “Come on, let’s go get more ice cream.” Peter, slightly bewildered, follows. 

Overhead, the stars are coming out, and the moon is a pale silver crescent hanging like a bowl in the sky. Remus has never been able to say no to Sirius.

** **


	27. Sandcastles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being alive is a gift, these days.

August 27th, 1978

That Sunday, none of them is busy. No one has to work, no one has Order duties or personal engagements, and no one wants to spend the last moments of summer inside moping. It is James’ idea to go to  Brighton . It’s a sort of…last hurrah, which depresses Remus a little. It would be all right if it was just a last hurrah of summer, before they went back to school, but there’s no school now to go back to. They’ve been doing the same things all summer they’ll be doing when they go home tomorrow, they’ll be doing the same things on September 1st, when they do not get on the Hogwarts Express. It’s the last hurrah before they really become adults, and though they’ve all had adult responsibilities for the last year, Remus knows it will feel different. 

But he’s not going to think about any of that. He’s going to spend this last golden ridge of summer with his best friends in all the world. Because that’s all he _can_ do. 

The sea is clear, and the seaside busy. The five of them amble down the edge of the beach, laughing, talking, seeing the sights, being alive. Being alive is a gift, these days. James and Sirius race ahead, curve back and around, encompassing the world in their arms, the wooden slats of the boardwalk between their fingers and toes. Lily breaks away from the group and spins, arms out, grey-green skirt twirling like a dervish. She is a girl for a moment, the little girl who could make things happen without knowing why, the girl she was when they first knew her. Peter has his camera out, but he isn’t taking pictures. He’s only watching, because it’s better to see with eyes clear than through the lens of a camera. 

Remus watches the others, walking slowly, trying not to think. “Sirius!” he shouts as the other boy grabs him by the hand and spins him round. 

“Dance, Moony, dance!” Sirius cries back, into the wind, and pulls Remus into a clumsy waltz, an awkward tango. Remus doesn’t pull away, as he would have done once, because he’s holding on to the feeling of sea wind on his cheeks and Sirius’ hands in his. 

Can they really call themselves the Marauders any more? It’s been a long time since they’ve pulled a prank, a long time since they’ve snuck around Hogwarts in the dead of night, risking expulsion and their necks. Lily’s with them now, and she’s got a wicked sense of humour and the cleverness to put it to use, but she’s careful, too. Remus is careful, but James never listened to Remus the way he listens to Lily, and Sirius doesn’t listen to anyone. Things have changed, and Remus wonders if he is the only one who’s noticed that the Marauders have become something else. They’ve become James and Lily, Sirius and Remus, Peter. 

Mid-afternoon, they buy fish-and-chips. It’s not lunch time, not dinner time, not even really tea time. On any other day, Remus would argue against eating between meals. But not today. Today, he devours his chips in two minutes flat and crumples the greasy paper between his fingers, and then leans over Sirius’ shoulder, attempting to filch chips from him. Sirius dances out of reach, laughing. 

The sun sets across the water. They sit on the edge of the boardwalk, feet bare and sand between their toes, talking. James has his arm around Lily’s waist, and her fingers skate across the skin between his belt and the hem of his t-shirt. He’s quieter than usual, though he answers readily when spoken to. There are children playing across the sand, buckets and plastic trowels, building sand castles. 

“Marry me, Lily,” James says suddenly. She turns to look at him, mouth open in shock. Sirius, Remus, and Peter are staring too, though Remus is staring more in surprise at James’ timing than shock at the question. It’s like they’ve been on their way here for the last seven years, really. 

“But—but we’re only eighteen, we just finished school—” She clears her throat, staring at James. “You mean it?” 

“’Course I do. We’re eighteen, and we may not live to see twenty. I don’t want to waste time. Will you marry me, Lily?” The expression of hope on James’ face is almost painful to look at. 

“You’re a bloody idiot, Potter; of course I’ll marry you.” 

-

Night has fallen truly now, the sky is a dusting of stars. James and Lily have gone AWOL, probably off doing something romantic and sickening. Peter has gone in search of more film for his camera. Remus and Sirius are left lying in the sand, a series of failed sandcastles in a circle around them like a fairy ring. 

“Maybe you’re just not meant to be an architect,” Remus says pacifically. “It’s just not in the cards.”

“It’s sand, Moony, everyone can build a sandcastle.” 

“Well, maybe you don’t have the right kind of sand.” 

Sirius snorts and flings sand at Remus’ left leg. They are silent, listening to the peaceful crashing of waves. “Are you jealous, Remus?” Sirius asks suddenly.

“What?” 

“Of James and Lily. Getting married.”

Remus pauses and thinks for so long that Sirius begins to look worried. “No, I’m not jealous,” he says slowly. “I have you. You may not be able to build sandcastles, but you make better scrambled eggs than I do.”

“Oh, is that all?” 

“Well, you don’t snore.” 

Sirius tackles Remus into the sand, smashing a sandcastle in the way. They grin at each other, nose to nose, and then kiss like it’s the end of the world, like teenagers, like Moony and Padfoot, Remus and Sirius. “I think I’ve got sand in my ear,” Remus mutters, and they can’t help laughing. 

In that moment, Remus stops thinking of this as a last hurrah. It is only the beginning.


	28. Love, Sirius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Moony,_ he will write. _Shall I tell you a story?_

August 28th, 1977

Once, Sirius would look at the night sky and pay no mind to the moon. There was no one on the Black family tree named after it; it held no interest for the heir to that noble family. 

Now, years later, he is no longer the heir, no longer a Black in anything but name and face (so he likes to think), no longer on the Black family tree at all. He looks into the cloudless face of night and sees the moon. He sees the moon and thinks of Remus. 

James went to bed hours ago; Sirius is waiting for the sun to rise. He lies on his back in the grass, damp with dew, warm with the heat of summer’s end leftover into the night. The moon hangs, full, round as a summer peach, but so much colder. 

In the morning, Sirius will compose a letter, write it out in his bold, slightly looping hand, wrap it around a bar of chocolate and send it onward. On mornings after the moon when they are at school, Sirius sits on Moony’s bed in the hospital wing, saying everything, whether or not Remus is listening. “ _I had eggs for breakfast, scrambled eggs, which I really think are better than any other kind of egg._ _And Peter fell asleep in charms this morning; he nearly managed to stab his eye out with his own wand. I took notes for you, look, and I’ll help you practice water charms tomorrow.”_

But it’s summer still, for three more days, and Remus is at home, and Sirius is several counties away. So he writes a letter, long enough that Remus, though he is a quick reader, will still take some time to read it. Sirius hopes it will give him something to do while he lies in bed, recovering from the ravages of a lonely moon. Will the wolf know, Sirius wonders, that one at least of his pack-mates was awake, keeping vigil for him? 

_ Dear Moony, _ he will write. _Shall I tell you a story?_

It’s a rather good story, Sirius thinks. It’s the sort of story Remus reads late at night, when he’s finished his school work and grown tired of trying to fall asleep. It has all the best elements of all the best stories—adventure, mystery, betrayal, war, friendship, romance, love. 

When he’s finished telling his story, making it up as he goes and adding characters and twists on whims and idle fancies, he’ll tell the important things. Things like, _I bought a hat yesterday with a feather in it. I think it very fetching. I promise to model it for you when we see you on the train._ And _, Do bring that book about the French fellow, the Count of Whatsit. I fancy reading it, it sounds splendid fun. We’re going to be seventh years in three days! Imagine, that, Moony. Remember when we were just ickle firsties? Look how far we’ve come._

He’ll sign the letter, _Love, Sirius_. 

These days, when Sirius looks at the night sky, the first thing he sees is the moon. He imagines it will always be that way.

-

**_ " _ ** _ But leaving earthly things, I turned my observations to the heavens; and first I saw the moon... **"** _

_ Galileo Galilei, Sidereus Nuncius (The Starry Messenger), 1610 _

_ _

_ _


	29. Begin Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here goes,” Remus Lupin mutters to Sirius Black, and they turn down the path of Number Four.

August 29th, 1982

It’s a cool morning, clear, fresh. The breeze tastes of autumn. The two men move with focused intent, stepping side by side in their mutual purpose, past the neatly trimmed lawns and ordered flowerbeds of 

Privet Drive

. One of the two is clean and pressed, as neat and tidy as the lawns, if a bit…dusty, faded around the edges. The other is wilder, a fierce look in his eyes and the corners of his face, clothing more mismatched and more rumpled. Both look haunted, lurking darkness in their wake. Both are too determined and too stubborn to let that darkness catch them up.

It is a perfect morning for this, the wilder one thinks. It feels like spring, but that’s only the deceptive freshness of a sun-filled morning after a rainy night. It’s morning. It’s a new day. Things will be different. That’s all that matters. 

“Here goes,” Remus Lupin mutters to Sirius Black, and they turn down the path of Number Four. Sirius knocks at the door, clenching his fingers together behind his back and biting his lower lip. 

It’s a woman who answers, and Remus thinks with a jolt that this is _Lily’s_ sister, and the difference between them is so strange. “Mrs. Dursley? I’m Remus Lupin, this is Sirius Black. We’d like to see Harry, if you don’t mind.” 

Her eyes narrow. “I remember you.” She flicks her chin at Sirius, who looks sort of disreputable, and _Oh, God_ , Remus thinks. _I should have made him put a different shirt on._ “You were at my sister’s wedding. You’re one of her lot.” 

_ Oh dear. This is not a good beginning.  _ “Yes, we were at her wedding,” Remus answers. “Sirius is Harry’s godfather. May we come in? This is better not discussed on the doorstep.” She steps aside to let them in, but doesn’t usher them into the living room, or close the door. 

Remus looks around at the front hall. It looks clean—a bit too clean. He thinks they should discuss this sitting down, really, but he’ll take what he can get. “As Harry’s godfather, Sirius has the right to take care of Harry in the absence of his parents. He has been…unable to do so, until now, but if Harry has no objection, he would like to bring Harry to live with him.” 

Suddenly, there is a squeal, and the door to the cupboard under the stairs bursts open. A little boy tumbles out, head over heels, and then pulls himself upright, wobbling slightly. “Harry…” Sirius breathes, gazing at the boy, who looks _so_ familiar he almost makes Sirius forget the year since he last saw him. 

“D’you mean it?” Harry asks. He has hair like James and eyes like Lily, and his eyebrows are James’ too, which is unfortunate. The three adults stand there staring at him. Sirius’ mouth works soundlessly, and Remus has an expression of awe on his face, and Petunia looks both confused and slightly murderous. 

Remus recovers first. “Yes, Harry. Sirius and I were friends of your mum and dad.” Harry shuffles closer, trying to decide which of the men he should go to. The one with the most command of speech looks more approachable, but the other one looks _cool_. And two-year-old boys are very susceptible to _cool_. Especially a cool godfather he didn’t know he had. 

“You won’t make me sleep in a cupboard?” Harry asks solemnly, eyes wide as he stares up at Sirius. 

“A cu—” Sirius’ eyes flick towards the open door of the cupboard under the stairs, and he crouches to face Harry, frowning. “No, of course not. You can have your own room, and any toys you like. I promise, Harry.” 

Over their heads, Remus turns to Petunia, some of his practised calm fading. “You make him sleep in a cupboard? He’s two. He’s your nephew. I know Dumbledore asked you to treat him as your own son, but you’ve obviously not done that. Your sister was a good friend of mine, Mrs. Dursley. If she had been asked to take care of her nephew and treat him as her own son, I know she would have done it.” 

Mrs. Dursley looks taken-aback, though not entirely penitent. “You’re welcome to take the boy,” she says coldly, and Sirius scoops him up in his arms, body remembering the many afternoons he spent babysitting during Harry’s first year of life.

“Is there anything you want to bring with you, Harry?” Remus says over Sirius’ shoulder. Harry shakes his head and puts his thumb in his mouth, gazing at Sirius with the beginnings of worshipful adoration. 

“Come on, Harry,” Sirius says, completely ignoring Petunia, who is tapping her fingers impatiently against the doorknob. “We’re going to buy you a birthday present.” 

It’s taken a long time. Years of war, another year of horrible incarceration for Sirius, lonely cold for Remus, and quiet bullying for Harry. Disappointment, distrust, the search for Peter. But they’ve reached a quiet moment, now. It’s morning, the sun is shining, the world begins again. All will be well.


	30. A Breath of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against the bluer than a blueberry sky, Sirius is almost a silhouette.

August 30th, 1976

They are, once again, lying in Remus’ back yard. In two days they will catch the Hogwarts Express and go back to school for their sixth year, which promises to be a particularly good one. The sky is blue. Bluer than a blueberry, bluer than Sirius’ Appleby Arrows t-shirt, bluer than Ravenclaw’s robes. They are eating sucrose-free fudge, for some reason neither of them has been able to pinpoint. It was in the cupboard in the kitchen, and for some reason the idea of sucrose-free fudge makes Remus giggle, and Sirius likes sweets whether they have real sugar in them or not. 

Remus can feel his teeth slowly gluing themselves together. “I think I’m burning all the calories in this stuff by chewing it,” he says. Sirius’ head is pillowed on his stomach, and he watches it move up and down as he speaks. “Like celery.”

“I know a better way to burn calories,” Sirius says, and wiggles his eyebrows so that they look like deranged caterpillars in the throes of death. 

Remus raises one eyebrow (like a normal person), and says, “I am going to pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Sirius un-sticks another piece of fudge from the paper and chews on it thoughtfully. “I like this,” he says around the fudge. 

“What?” 

“Summer. The sucrose-free fudge. Your stomach—it’s nice and squashy.” He rolls over onto his own stomach, sharp chin digging into Remus’ ribs. “Your hair.”

“My hair?” He looks at Sirius with an expression of supreme doubt. 

“Yes, your hair.” Sirius reaches up to run his fingers through Remus’ unusually messy hair. 

“If you get fudge in my hair I will be forced to hurt you,” Remus says, pulling Sirius’ hands away from his head and inspecting them. 

The deranged caterpillars reappear on Sirius’ face. They look like they are going to crawl down and eat his nose. “Oh, I’ll get fudge in your—”

“Stop that, Sirius, it’s terrifying.” 

“What, this?” He wriggles his eyebrows again. Remus fights the impulse to run far, far away. Sirius pushes himself up and crawls forward, until he is leaning over Remus’ head and breathing fudge-breath on his cheeks. Against the bluer than a blueberry sky, Sirius is almost a silhouette. “What are you going to do about it Moony, huh? Going to stop me?”

“You are fudge-batty,” Remus says, just before he kisses Sirius. “And I’m kissing you, I must be fudge-batty too,” he mutters, though it doesn’t come out as coherent as he would have liked, seeing how it is muffled in the corner of Sirius’ mouth. And the next thing Remus knows, Sirius’ tongue is slipping against his own, and _is that Sirius’ teeth?_ It is a bit like kissing an octopus, Remus imagines. Sort of slimy and wet. But very, _very_ good. He must be fudge-batty. It’s the only explanation for thinking octopus kisses are that good. 

“What are we doing?” Sirius asks suddenly, pulling away. 

“Er, eating unhealthy amounts of fudge? Snogging?” Remus makes a stab at it, as he has no idea what exactly Sirius is referring to. 

“And, er, are we going to keep on doing…what we’re doing? Later?” Sirius is biting his lip, and it’s distracting Remus from the matter at hand (though he isn’t entirely sure what the matter _is_ ). 

“Well, I think we’ll have eaten all the fudge at some point….” And then it clicks. “Sirius, you’re not worried we’re going to stop doing…this, when we go back to school?” 

Sirius turns a delicate shade of pink. “We’re not going to stop…this, are we?” 

Remus kisses the corner of Sirius’ jaw. “’Course not, idiot.” He can feel Sirius’ breath of relief against his ear, and it feels like autumn. 

Summer’s ending. Other things are just beginning.    



	31. Timeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus feels like time doesn’t mean much any more.

August 31st, 1991

The kitchen window is fogged over with a combination of the chill morning early-autumn air and Sirius’ shower. The sky outside is blue, the kind of blue that red-gold leaves silhouette themselves against. It doesn’t smell of summer any more, burnt grass and lemonade. It smells of September, new parchment and fresh ink, promised adventures. Remus leans against the kitchen counter, teacup cradled in his hands and radiating heat. He draws a happy face in the condensation on the glass. 

Remus feels like time doesn’t mean much any more. Harry is eleven years old, tomorrow he will go to Hogwarts. He’s eleven years old, and sometimes Remus sees him grown, lost baby chubbiness around his face, jaw borrowed from James, hair as messy as it ever was. Sometimes Remus sees the baby, round face, unmarked forehead, tiny fist grasping his mother’s finger. Harry’s asleep still, exhausted from excitement, youthful unwillingness to go to bed and unwillingness to get up. 

Sirius bumps into the kitchen, towel around his shoulders, hair dripping onto his neck. Remus turns, and sees him timeless, too. The eleven-year-old boy, no older than Harry is now, eyes fierce and chin forward, proud. The sixteen-year-old who left his parents’ house, who kissed clumsily with hope between his teeth. The twenty-two year old who hunted, who relearned, who remembered. A Sirius whose age is indistinguishable, the Sirius watching Harry grow up. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” the present Sirius asks, going to the counter and pouring his own cup of tea. Remus watches him add sugar, the slightest amount of milk, just to see it swirl as it pours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. “Ask Harry.” He smiles into his teacup, wondering at his own fierce happiness. Sirius looks over sharply, and then sees that quirk, knows Remus too well. He reaches for him and pulls the teacup away, kisses the mouth behind it, twenty years of history and all the future in the kiss. 

Remus breaks away and rests his head against Sirius’ cheek. He traces a constellation of freckles at the meeting between Sirius’ neck and his shoulder, one fingertip along Canis Major, kiss for the Dog Star. They fit together, uneven limbs the invisible lines between the stars. 

“I love you,” Sirius says into Remus’ ear, breath tickling.

“Always,” Remus replies. 

Harry comes shuffling into the room, still in his pyjamas (red with snitches on). “Get a room,” he says, sitting down at the table and putting his elbows on it. “What’s for breakfast?” 

Remus and Sirius laugh at eleven-year-old bluntness. They know again, through Harry, the pup of the pack, what it is like to grow up, to grow down, to grow sideways, to be a child. Sirius especially is still enough of a child to understand these things. He laughs like a puppy, plays like a puppy, loves like a puppy. Remus just has understanding in his veins. They are perfect fathers. James would have been a perfect father too, had he lived. Lily would have been a perfect mother. 

“How’s waffles?” Sirius says, and starts flinging bowls and kitchen utensils around. Harry gets up to help, making a mess of an egg and getting batter in his hair. Remus picks up his teacup and drinks the last of his tea, watching the two people he loves most in the world. He doesn’t pause to look at the tea leaves, they hold no secrets. 

The fog across the window fades and curls away. The happy face is absorbed, but it is mirrored on Remus’ face, on Sirius’ and Harry’s. _Look how we are now_ , Remus thinks, still cradling his teacup in his palms. _Just look._ He starts up the waffle iron, joining in the cooking. Elbows bump, fingers brush across shoulders as one reaches for the butter, the other, for plates. They make breakfast. Life goes on.

THE END  


_ We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.  
\- Anais Nin _

_ _


End file.
